Rennie sighed. "Do any of you young fire-eaters ever listen to more than
one tenth of what any of your elders say? I _am_ saying and making it
plain: If you make a steady practice of trading punches with a trooper or
with any one else because you take a dislike to his face, the way his ears
stick out, how he walks or talks, or what color coat he wore in the war,
then you can roll your beds and ride out—the sooner the better.
"Reese Topham tells me that he explained the local situation to you, and
you appeared to understand it then. Any difficulty with the army could
have serious consequences, not just for you, but for the Range as well.
This time you were not the aggressors. But after being forewarned, if it
happens again, I’ll be hard to convince that you were in the right. The
war’s over—keep on remembering that. This is new country where it doesn’t,
or shouldn’t, matter whether a man wore a blue coat or marched under the
Stars and Bars. You’re far too young to let the past cut off the future.
Wars can finish a whole way of life for a man...." His eyes no longer held
Drew’s; he was looking beyond toward the half-open door or perhaps at
something that he alone could see. "You have to learn to throw away broken
things, not cherish them. Never look back!" That dry, tired voice took on
a fierce intensity. Then he was back with them again.
"Two Kirbys riding for the same spread is going to be rather confusing.
You are Drew, and you are Anson—Anson—" He repeated the name. "What part
of Texas are you from?"
"Pa had him a spread down near th’ San Sabe ’fore th’ Comanches came. He
was Anson, too—in th’ Rangers for a while, Pa was."
"Tall man, with a lot of freckles and red hair? Best rider in Miggs’
Company——" It was half question, half assertion.
"You knew Pa!" Anse shouldered past Drew. "That was Pa right enough. He
rode with Lieutenant Miggs in the Mex War."
Hunt Rennie was smiling. Once more years spun away from him. "I ought to
know him, son. He toted me across his saddle for a mighty long five miles
on a blistering hot day, I having as much to say about the matter as a
sack of corn, and being three times as heavy in spite of a starvation
diet. Yes, I’ll remember Anson Kirby. He and his squad were the first
Americans I ran into after I broke out of a filthy prison. Funny
though"—he glanced at Drew—"I don’t remember his mentioning a brother. You
_are_ his nephew?"
Anse was quick to the rescue. "Pa—he an’ Drew’s Pa—they weren’t too close.
Drew’s Pa was town folks. He sent Drew to Kaintuck for schoolin’. Pa, he
favored th’ range an’ th’ free land west—"
Rennie nodded. "Well, Anson, if you’re as good a rider as your father, we
can use you here. Horse knowledge seems to run in your family. Now,
shortly we are expecting a _Coronel_ Luis Oliveri who’s to buy horses for
the Juarez forces. He may need some assistance in driving them as far as
the border. If he does, both of you’ll go."
"Yes, suh."
Drew’s agreement was drowned out by a harsh cry from overhead. Rennie went
into action, so swiftly that for a startled moment Drew was left gaping at
empty space. _Don_ Cazar had caught up one of the rifles from under a
window and had crossed the doorway to look back at the roof of the Casa
Grande, calling out an inquiry in another language.
"Apaches don’t attack at night!" Drew was heading for the door in turn.
"Outlaws do, when it pays," Anse shot out grimly.
But on a second hail from the rooftop sentry post Rennie swung the rifle
over his arm and faced the outer gate of the patio.
"Unbar, Francisco!" he called in Spanish.
One leaf of the massive door folded back to allow in a small party of
horsemen. One saddled but riderless mount galloped along with the rest.
Another man held to the high horn with both hands and weaved back and
forth while a comrade riding beside him strove to keep him from toppling
to the ground. Drew had an impression of bright, almost gaudy uniforms.
The men of the Stronghold poured out to take the horses, helping down more
than one blood-stained soldier. Their leader, a slender man with dusty
gold lace banding his high collar, came directly to Rennie.
"_Don_ Cazar." His Spanish was a flood in which Drew was lost almost
immediately, but Anse listened with parted lips and then translated a
quick account.
"This here’s th’ _Coronel_. He an’ his men was bushwhacked. Got away
’cause they met th’ wagon train goin’ south an’ whoever was eatin’ their
dust huntin’ them didn’t seem to like the odds. Not Apaches, probably
_bandidos_——"
"Kitchell?" Drew asked.
"My guess is they ain’t sure. Got hit quick an’ had to stampede to save
their skins."
Oliveri’s men were taken in and Drew saw Rennie himself going from one of
the wounded to another, applying bandages and once probing skillfully for
a bullet. Drew commented on that, and Nye answered:
"Old Man knows what’s he’s doin’. He ain’t no real doc, of course, but was
I totin’ me a hunka lead in some serious part, I’d rather have him diggin’
for it than a lotta docs I’ve seen out here. Heard tell as how once he was
plannin’ to be a real doc hisself. He sure can take care of a fella good.
What I’d like to know is how them bushwhackers knew jus’ where to lay down
an’ wait for Oliveri."
"What do you mean?"
"This here _Coronel_, he was comin’ to buy hosses an’ so he was carryin’
money or else somethin’ as could pass for money. We all knowed he was
comin’. But we didn’t know when or what road, an’ he wasn’t tellin’ that
his side of th’ border neither. Only some jasper had such a good idea as
to that what an’ where, he an’ some _amigos_ was squattin’ back of rocks
jus’ waitin’ for th’ _Coronel_ to ride into their little pocket of fire."
"Mexicans could have trailed them up, cut ahead and waited——"
"Sure. Only this operation was too slick for most _bandidos_. They don’t
go in for timed, planned things; they jus’ cut loose when they see a
chance. This was different. Only Fenner an’ some of the train guards
ridin’ in spoiled their game."
"Kitchell then?"
"Sounds more like. Don’t think Kitchell’s some common ridge-ridin’ bad
man. He’d never’ve lasted this long was that so—not with th’ Old Man an’
th’ army an’ what law there is in th’ territory all gunnin’ for him. Plans
things, Kitchell does, an’ so far his plannin’ has always paid off.
"There’s something else true now, too. Was Kitchell plannin’ to make a
break south, he’d want him a good big stake to cover him on cold nights
an’ winter days. I jus’ wonder if this here ain’t th’ first of a lot of
fancy raidin’ jobs. Could be he’ll hit fast an’ hard, gather up all th’
sweepin’s an’ light out. Could jus’ be...."
"Don’t promise us much shadin’ times, does it?" Anse remarked. "Sounds
like everybody’s goin’ to have to set up a string an’ ride hosses in
rotation. That is, always supposin’ your supposin’ is right."
"Yeah, always supposin’ that," Nye agreed.
11
"Magnífico!"
Drew glanced over Shiloh’s back to the speaker. _Coronel_ Oliveri paused
in the doorway of the stable to study the stallion with almost exuberant
admiration mirrored on his dark and mobile features.
"_Don_ Cazar"—the Mexican officer raised a gloved hand in a beckoning
gesture—"_por favor_, Excellency ... this one, he is of the Blood?"
Hunt Rennie joined Oliveri. "You are right. He is indeed of the Blood," he
assented.
"It is past all hope then to offer for him?" Oliveri was smiling, but his
eyes held a greedy glint Drew had seen before. Shiloh was apt to produce
that reaction in any horseman.
"He is not mine to sell, _Coronel_. He belongs to _Señor_ Kirby who stands
there with him."
"So?" Oliveri’s open astonishment irritated Drew. Maybe he did have on
rough work clothes and look the part of a range drifter. But then when the
_Coronel_ had arrived here last night, _he_ had not been too neat either.
"A fine horse, _señor_." Oliveri came on in, now including Drew in his
gaze.
"I think so, _Coronel_," Drew returned shortly. He gave a last brush to
flank and smoothed the saddle blanket.
"From a distance you have brought him, _señor_?" Oliveri walked about the
stud as Drew went to fetch his saddle.
"From Kentucky." Was he unduly suspicious or was there a challenge in the
Mexican officer’s voice—a faint suggestion that the antecedents of both
horse and owner were in question?
"Kentucky ..." Oliveri stumbled in his repetition of the word. "I have
heard of Kentucky horses."
"Most people have." Drew tightened the cinch. Then his pride in Shiloh
banished some of his stiffness. "He is of the line of Eclipse." Maybe that
would not mean much to a Mexican, though. The breeding of eastern American
horses probably did not register south of the border.
"_Señor_—such a one—he is not for sale?"
"No." Drew knew that sounded curt, but Oliveri ruffled him. He added, "One
does not sell a friend."
Oliveri gave what sounded to Drew like an exaggerated sigh. "_Señor_, you
have spoiled my day. How can one look at lesser animals when one has seen
such a treasure? _Don_ Cazar, the Range harbors so many treasures—Oro, and
now this one. How is he named, _señor_?"
"Shiloh."
"Shiloh ..." The _Coronel_ made a sibilant hiss of the word. "An Indio
name?"
"No, a battle." Drew prepared to lead out. "In the war."
"So. And this one is a fighter, too. I think. _Señor_, should you ever
wish to sell, _por favor_, remember one Luis Oliveri! For such a horse as
this—_sí_, a man might give a fortune! Ah, to ride into camp before that
puffed-up gamecock of a Merinda on such a horse!" Oliveri closed his eyes
as if better to imagine the triumph.
"Shiloh’s not for sale, _Coronel_," Drew replied.
Oliveri shrugged. "Perhaps now, no. But time changes and chance changes,
_señor_. So remember Luis Oliveri will give a fortune—and this is the
truth, _señor_!"
"Hunt!" Drew was forced to halt as Johnny Shannon stood straight ahead of
him in the stable entrance. "Teodoro Trinfan’s come in with some news you
oughta hear."
"So? Well. I’m coming. _Coronel_, Johnny can show you the stock we have
ready. I will be back as soon as I can."
"Still I say"—Oliveri shook his head as Rennie pushed past Drew and Shiloh
and went out—"that after seeing this one, all others will be as pale
shadows of nothingness. But since I must have horses, _Señor_ Shannon, I
will look at horses. _Buenos dias, señor._" He raised a hand to Drew and
the Kentuckian nodded.
But Shannon still stood in the doorway, and short of walking straight into
him there was no way for Drew to leave. Johnny was smiling a little—just
as he had back in Tubacca in Topham’s office before the race.
"Seems like you’ve got you a four-legged gold mine there, Kirby," he said.
"Better keep your eyes peeled—gold claims have been jumped before in this
country. Kitchell’d give a lot to git a hoss like that to run south."
"He’d have to," Drew said grimly. "In lead—if he wanted it that way."
"Kinda sure of that, ain’t you?" The smile had not cracked, nor had it
reached those shuttered blue eyes. Why did everyone say Johnny Shannon was
a boy? Inside he was older than most of the men Drew had known—as old and
cold as the desert rocks in nighttime. Again the Kentuckian was teased by
a scrap of memory. Once before he had seen old eyes in a boy’s face, when
it had meant deadly danger for him.
"When a man has somethin’ as belongs to him, he doesn’t step aside easy if
another makes a play to grab it," he said.
For the first time then he did see a flicker in Shannon’s eyes. And his
hand tightened so on the reins that some fraction of his reaction must
have reached Shiloh. The horse neighed, pawed with a forefoot.
"Just what I’ve always thought, too, Kirby." Shannon’s voice was softer,
more drawling than ever. And there was menace in it—but why? What did
Shannon have against him? This was more now than the fact that they had
both bristled, incompatible, at their first meeting. It was more than just
instinctive dislike. No, Johnny Shannon was not a reckless boy; Drew Kirby
knew that, if no one else on the Range did.
"_Coronel_"—Shannon stepped aside from the door—"we may not be able to git
you somethin’ as fine as this here prancer, but we ain’t altogether
lackin’ in mighty good hosses. Come ’long an’ look ’em over...."
Drew rode off, out of the patio gate, giving Shiloh his daily workout,
trying to guess what Johnny Shannon had against him. Had he been right in
his fear that Johnny had not been unconscious back in Tubacca, that he had
caught Anse’s greeting? Rennie was not too common a name, but he did not
see how Johnny could possibly have hit upon the truth.
What if he had, though? To Johnny, Drew could loom as a threat. He might
be baffled as to why the Kentuckian had not made a move to claim kinship
with Hunt. How much of Rennie’s own past history was known to the people
here? His escape from prison during the Mexican War was common knowledge.
But, come to think of it, no one had mentioned his youthful marriage or
the fact that he was a widower. Perhaps even Johnny had never heard that
story, close to Hunt as he was. But Drew dared ask no questions.
He was still puzzling over the situation when he returned an hour later.
Nye, Anse, and a couple of the other riders had some of the recently
broken mounts out, showing them off to Oliveri. There was shouting, noise,
and confusion around the corrals and Drew slipped past without pausing. He
had finished with Shiloh and was on his way to the bunkhouse when Hunt
Rennie hailed him.
"Drew!" An imperative wave of the hand brought him to join _Don_ Cazar and
to discover Anse already there, rolling his bed. For a second or two Drew
blinked—the occupation fitted in too well with their worries of the night
before. But Hunt Rennie was already explaining.
"Teodoro tells me that they’ve found traces of shod horses being driven
back in the canyons. This late the grass is beginning to brown, but there
are still some sections where stock can be wintered. I want to know more
about this. Since both of you are newcomers—" Rennie paused and then
added: "Your riding away from here might appear to others that you had
quit, were joining up with the mustangers on your own."
"To hunt horses?" Drew asked.
"Not wild ones."
"Sounds like trouble." Anse tied his bedroll.
"In this country we expect trouble, from any direction—including up and
down!" Rennie returned. "But I find it disturbing that broken stock is
being herded back there. Such maneuvers can mean only one thing—stolen
animals are being gathered for a run to the border. And some of them could
be army owned; a remount corral was raided just before I left town. I
would not care, just now, to have any army mounts located on this Range—no
matter where they were hidden or by whom. If they are there, I want to be
the one to find them and return them to the proper owners. It would please
certain parties to find stolen stock hereabouts—particularly army.
"Now"—he gave an order he obviously expected to be obeyed—"if you do find
anything, don’t try to take over yourselves. That’s final. This is nothing
to rush into just to burn powder. And above all I want no mixing it up
with any army patrol riding south. Do you both understand?"
Drew nodded.
"Yes, suh," Anse replied promptly. "We jus’ git high behind an’ take care.
What the mustangers got to do with this?"
"Nothing. Except they can show you the tracks, and with them you can cover
a good part of the country in question. There’s been no Apache sign down
there, and Running Fox will accompany you—only not so openly as to be
noticed."
"You think someone may be watchin’ the Stronghold?" Drew asked as he
buckled his saddlebags.
"I don’t know anything for sure. But a couple of incidents lately have
suggested that someone knows a lot more about what’s going on here than I
like. It would be easy enough to lie out in the hills and keep field
glasses on us down here. And when a man is familiar with the general
routine of a place, he can guess a sight too much and too close just by
watching the comings and goings. So—you’re going to ride out within the
hour and be well along before you camp tonight. We can’t waste time."
The nights were chill and the cold made them huddle turtle fashion into
the upturned collars of their short riding coats and jam their hats down
as far as possible on their heads. Winter breathed across the land now
with the coming of dark.
They traveled at an angle, the pace set by Teodoro who led a pack mule.
Somewhere out there in the dark the Pima Scout was prowling. But he had
had his orders: no contact with the three travelers unless there was fear
of attack. And both Anse and Drew were alert, knowing that the farther one
went from the Stronghold the less one relaxed guard.
"Kinda nippy, ain’t it?" Anse said. In the very dim light Drew could just
make out that the Texan was holding his gloved hand to his mouth, puffing
at the crooked fingers. "Ain’t as bad as ridin’ out a norther, though. I
’mind me how jus’ ’fore th’ war—I was ridin’ for wages for Old Man Shaw
then—we had a norther hit. I’m tellin’ you, it was so cold th’ ramrod came
out to give th’ mornin’ orders an’ his words, they jus’ naturally froze up
solid. Us boys, we hadda go git th’ wood ax an’ chop ’em apart ’fore we
knew what we was all to do. Now that’s what I call bein’ cold!"