Drew laughed. "Don’t think it ever gets quite that cold hereabouts."

It was good being away from the Stronghold, out here with Anse. It was as

if he had been let out of lessons, or freed from a sense of duty and

responsibility which was a growing burden.

"Nope. Texas sure is a lotta country, a whole bag with odds an’ ends

stuffed in any which way. ’Course this is new range to me. But what I’ve

seen of it, were you jus’ able to run off th’ _bandidos_ an’ git th’

Apaches offen it for good—why, it might be a right respectable sorta

territory. A man could carve hisself out a spread as he could brag on."

"You’d like it?"

Anse blew on his fingers again. "Maybe—all things bein’ considered, as

they say. I’ve heard tell as how all a man needs to start his own brand is

a loose rope, a runnin’ iron, an’ th’ guts to use them. It’s been done,

an’ is bein’ done all th’ time. Only I don’t think as how th’ Old Man

would take to havin’ any such big-ideared neighbor here. Not much cattle,

though, to interest a wide loop man. Now hosses—everyone says as how

they’s plenty of wild stuff. You got you Shiloh, Drew, an’ you said you

made a foal deal with th’ Old Man. Git some more good-lookin’ an’ actin’

wild ones an’ you’re in business—runnin’ your Spur R brand. Three-four

years, an’ th’ luck a man has always got to hope for, an’ you’ve more’n

jus’ a stake—you’ve got roots an’ a spread!"

"_We_ have," Drew corrected. "Why’d you suppose I wanted that foal deal?

There’s free land to be had in the valley. Some of the ranchers cleared

out when the Apaches started raidin’ and they’re not comin’ back. We might

look over what Trinfan has picked up as long as we are out here. I know

the Old Man hasn’t contracted for anything but gettin’ rid of that Pinto

stud. We could make an offer for any good slicks—put the Spur R on them

and run them in on the Range. Rennie has already said that’s all right

with him."

"Whoee!" Anse muffled one of the old spirited war yells into a husky

whisper. "You an’ me, we’re goin’ to do it! Ain’t nobody can put hobbles

on a pair of Tejanos as has their chewin’ teeth fast on th’ bit!"

It was something to think about, all right. But future chances should not

take a man’s mind off the job immediately ahead. Only tonight, out here,

Drew had a feeling of being able to do anything—from touching the sky with

his uplifted hand to fighting Kitchell man to man. That, however, was just

what Hunt Rennie did _not_ want and what Drew had promised not to do.

Horses to be found back in the rough country, hidden away in the maze of

pocket canyons where there was water and enough browning grass to keep

them from straying. There must be hundreds of places ready to be used that

way. But how come Kitchell could hide out in Apache country? Nothing Drew

knew of that tribe fitted in with the idea of a white outlaw band sharing

their hunting ground unmolested. It had never mattered to an Apache

whether a man rode on the north or south side of the law—if his skin was

white, that automatically made him prey. Drew said so now.

Teodoro answered that. "Apaches want guns, _señor_. Their arrows are

deadly, but guns are always better."

"I’d think," Anse cut in, "that any guns Kitchell’d have he’d be hangin’

on to—needin’ them his ownself. Can’t be easy for _him_ to git them,

neither."

"Not here, no," Teodoro agreed. "But south, that is different. There is

big trouble in Mexico—this French emperor fights Juarez, so there is much

confusion. In wartime guns can be lost. A party of soldiers are cut off,

as was _Coronel_ Oliveri almost—men can be killed. But a gun—it is not

buried with a man. A gun is still useful, worth money, if he who picks it

up from beside the dead does not want it for himself. So—such a _bandido_

as this Kitchell, he could take horses, good, trained horses—maybe from

the army—and he would run them south. He would sell them for money, _sí_,

probably much money. But also he could trade for guns—two, three, five

guns at a time. Not as good as those his own men carry—old ones maybe, but

good enough for Apaches. He would then bring these north, give them as

payment for being left alone."

"Why wouldn’t the Apaches just kill him and his men and grab what they

have?" Drew pointed out what seemed to him the obvious flaw in the system.

"Apaches, they are not stupid. Guns they could take. But once such a gun

is broken, where can they get another? They cannot walk into Tubacca or

Tucson to buy what they need. Kitchell’s men do, perhaps—it is thought

that they do so. Also when he trades at the border it is with men who

would meet the Apaches with fire and bullets. Apache war parties are never

large. Perhaps in all this part of the country there are not more than

half a hundred warriors—and those scattered in small bands. I do not say

that this is truth, _Señor_ Kirby. I only say that it would explain many

things—such as why Kitchell has not been caught."

"Makes sense," Anse commented. "Always did hear as how Apaches were

meaner’n snakes but they wasn’t stupid. Keep a tame gunrunner to work for

’em—that sounds like th’ tricky sorta play they cotton to. If it is so,

th’ man who gits Kitchell may jus’ rid this country of some of them

two-legged wolves into th’ bargain."

"According to what I’ve heard," Drew said, "this Kitchell claims to lead a

regular Confederate force that hasn’t surrendered. If he wants to make

that valid, he wouldn’t dare any such deal!"

"I’ll bet you without waitin’ to see a hole card," Anse replied, "that if

that coyote was ever ridin’ on our side—which I don’t stretch ear to—he

cut loose them traces long ago. There were them buzzards we had us a

coupla run-ins with back in Tennessee, ’member? Scum ... some of ’em

wearin’ blue coats, some gray, but they was all jus’ murderin’ outlaws.

What did they whine when they was caught? Did th’ Yankees run ’em in, then

they was unlucky Reb scouts. An’ when our boys licked up a nest of th’

varmints—why, we’d taken us a mess o’ respectable Yank ’Irregulars,’

’cordin’ to their story. ’Course none of their protestin’ kept ’em from

stretched necks." His hand went to his own. "I oughta know, seem’ as how I

was picked up with a parcel of ’em an’ was close ’nough to feel th’ wind

when a noose swung by.

"This here Kitchell—I’m takin’ Bible oath he’s th’ same mangy breed. Maybe

so he started out to be Reb, but that was a long time ago an’ he crossed

over th’ river long since. An’ some of them beauties back east, they’da

lapped muddy water outta an Apache’s boot tracks, did it mean savin’ their

dirty hides. Sounds to me, Teodoro, like you’ve some plain,

straightforward thinkin’ there—a mighty interestin’ idea. An’ maybe we’re

jus’ goin’ to attend to th’ provin’ of it!"

"Not by ourselves," Drew corrected. "We have our orders."

"Sure. But there ain’t no order ever given what says a man has to stand up

an’ be shot at an’ he don’t shoot back. No, I ain’t sniffin’ up trouble’s

hot trail like a bush hound. But neither am I goin’ t’ sit down an’ fold

my two hands together when trouble hits as it’s like to do out here."

Drew agreed with that, though he did not say so. Rennie must know the

circumstances. They would have to defend themselves if it came to a fight.

But he could hope that, if Kitchell had stocked some hidden canyons with

stolen horses, the outlaw leader had left no guards on duty thereabouts.

With Running Fox prowling ahead and with him and Anse using all the scout

tricks they had learned in war-time, they should be able to learn just how

correct Teodoro’s suspicions were.

12

"See, señores, the land lies so...." Hilario Trinfan’s crooked body pulled

together in a lopsided perch as he squatted range fashion beside the

morning campfire. He had smoothed a space of ground the width of his two

hands and was setting out twigs and stones to create a miniature relief

map of the countryside. "Here is the water hole to which the Pinto comes.

Above that we were—moving in from this side. To do so we crossed here." A

black-rimmed nail stabbed into the dust.

"It is then we see the tracks—five ahead—all shod horses, but not ridden,

save for one."

"Apaches could have been running them," Drew commented.

"No." Trinfan shook his head. "This far from pursuit the Apaches would not

have moved so. The Indio, he eats horseflesh. There would have been signs

of a fire. Or one of the animals cut down. These horses were being moved

with care—not pushed too hard. We trailed them on to here." Hilario

stabbed his finger into the dust again. "Then—Teodoro, now tell them what

you saw."

The younger mustanger hung over the crude map. "I climbed, _señores_, up

over the rocks. It is bad, that ground, high, steep—but with care one can

reach a ledge. And along that one can go to look down into the next

canyon. A good place for horses—there is water and grass. I stayed there

watching with the glasses _Don_ Cazar gave my father, the glasses which

bring the far close. There were poles set up in the rocks through which

they brought those horses—making it like a pen we build for wild ones. But

those in it were not wild."

"How many—an’ what brands?" Anse wanted to know.

Teodoro shrugged. "There are many trees, rocks; one can not see

everywhere. I counted twenty head—there is room for more. As to brands,

even the glasses could not make those plain to the eyes of one lying

above. But there is no other ranchero who would run horses on the Range

and _Don_ Cazar’s _manadas_ are not driven in here—does he want the wild

ones to run off his mares? Horses would be kept so for only one reason,

that they must be hidden. And in such a place as we found they could be

left for maybe a month, or more. _Don_ Cazar’s riders do not patrol this

far away from the Stronghold. Had it not been that the Pinto causes so

much trouble, even we would not be here."

"What about the Pinto? If he’s all you say, wouldn’t he try to get at this

band?" asked Drew.

"No reason if they are saddle stock—no mares among them," Anse said

thoughtfully. "But would those hombres who put ’em there jus’ leave—no

guards or nothin’?"

"That is what we do not know," Hilario replied. "We took every precaution

against being seen when Teodoro climbed to look into the canyon. And—this

I believe—we were not suspected if there was any watcher. Otherwise,

otherwise, _señores_, we would not have been alive to greet you when you

rode in last night! This Kitchell, he is like an Apache—here, there,

everywhere. Today I am easier because you have brought the Pima, because

we have two more guns in this camp."

"Why didn’t you pull out yourselves?" Anse asked curiously.

"Because, were we watched, that would have made our discovery as plain as

if we stood out in the open and shouted it to the winds. For three days

before we found that trail we had been building a pen for wild ones,

casting about for the tracks and runs of the Pinto’s band. Having done so,

we would not leave without completing our drive. And, should those out

there suspect"—Trinfan shook his head—"we would not have lived to reach

the Stronghold, and that is the truth."

"This is also truth, _padre_." Faquita came to the fire and picked up the

coffeepot, pouring the thick black liquid into the waiting line of tin

cups. "It is time for us to finish and be on the move—not to just talk of

what must be done."

Drew looked up in surprise. The girl was wearing breeches, ready to ride.

In addition, instead of the gunbelts which all the men wore as a matter of

course, Faquita had tucked a pair of derringers in the front of her sash

belt. Their small grips showed above the faded silk folds.

"She goin’ with us?" the Kentuckian asked, as the girl kicked dust over

the campfire and stowed the empty pot in the cart. "Ain’t that

dangerous—for her?"

Hilario got to his feet with a lurch that made his crippled state only too

plain. "_Señor_, to hunt the wild ones is dangerous. You see me, twisted

like a root, no? Not tall and straight as a man should be. This was done

by the wild ones—in one small moment when I was not quick enough. Among

us—the mustangers—it is often the daughters who are the best riders. They

are quick, eager, riding lighter than their brothers or their fathers. And

to some it is a loved life. With Faquita that is true. As for danger—is

that not always with us?

"In war danger is a thing which one man makes for another. In this country

the land itself fights man—war or no war. A cloudburst fills an arroyo

with a flood without warning, and a man is drowned amidst desert sand

where only hours before he could have died for lack of that same water.

There is a fall of rocks, a fall of horse, a stampede of cattle, sickness

which strikes at a lone traveler out of nowhere. Yet have you not ridden

to war, and come now to live on this land? _Sí_, we have danger—but a man

can also die in his bed in the midst of a village with strong walls. And

to everyone his own way of life. Now we ride...."

They did indeed ride, following a trail which, as far as Drew could see,

existed only in the minds of the mustangers. But the three Mexicans swung

along so confidently that he and Anse joined without question or argument.

At a distance they circled the waiting pen with walls of entwined brush

and sapling, ready to funnel driven horses into a blind canyon. The

Pinto’s band must be located, somehow shaken out of the rocky territory

their wily leader favored, before that drive could begin. Water, Trinfan

said, would be the key. Horses must drink and they were creatures of

habit, never ranging far from some one hole they had made their own.

Trinfan blankets already flapped about the Pinto’s chosen spring. They had

seen the horses approach several times in the past two days and shy away

from those flapping things with the fearsome man scent.

"As long as La Bruja is with them," Faquita said, coming up beside Drew,

"they will not come."

"La Bruja?"

"The Witch, as Anglos would say. We call her so because of her cunning.

She is the wise one who keeps lookout. I say she is possessed by the Evil

One. It is possible the Pinto is her son. Together they have always

outwitted the hunters. But La Bruja is old—she runs more stiffly. Last

time in the chase she began to drop behind. She is of no use, only a

nuisance. It is the White One I wish to drop rope over!"

"The White One?"

"_Sí._ She is Nieve—the snow of the upper mountains. Among our people you

will hear many tales of white ones, without a dark spot on them—the Ghost

Stallions that run the plains and no man may lay rope over. But this mare

is the truth! And someday—" Her eyes shone and she seemed to be making

some vow Drew would be called to bear witness to. "Someday she will be

mine! Not to trail south and sell—no—but to keep, always!"

"She must be very beautiful," he commented.

"It is not only that, _señor_. You have a fine horse, one which beat _Don_

Cazar’s Oro, is that not so?"

"Yes. Shiloh ..."

"And to you that one is above all other horses. If you lost him, you would

be—like hungry ... inside you, is that not also so?"

"Yes!" Her earnestness triggered that instant response from him.

"So it is with me since I have seen Nieve. Men find such a horse; for

years they follow the band in which it runs to snare it. They will suffer

broken bones, as did my father, and hunger, and thirst, because there is

one tossing head, one set of flying heels before them. Sometimes they are

lucky and they catch that one. If they do not, there is in them a pinch of

winter even when the desert sun is hot. Once I loved all horses—now there

is this one which I must have!"

"I hope you get her!"

"_Señor_, last season I hoped. This season—this season I have belief that

my hopes will come true. Ah, look, the Indio!"

She pointed with quirt and Drew glanced left. He saw what appeared to be

an outcrop of rock among many others move, then rise on sturdy legs to

meet them.

Running Fox, a brown blanket twisted over one shoulder, the rest of him

stripped down to breechclout and moccasins, padded up to Hilario Trinfan

and spoke in the guttural Pima. The mustanger translated.

"The horses are still there. But there is a camp of two men on the north

slope above the canyon. Both men are Anglos. They are armed with rifles

and take turns watching."

"Can we reach a place from where we can read the brands on the horses?"

Drew asked.

Trinfan questioned the Pima.

"_Sí._ But you can not go there by day. You must go in at dusk, wait out

the night, and then see what you could in the early morning. Leave before

sunup. Otherwise the watchers may be able to locate you. He says"—Trinfan

smiled—"that _he_ could go at high noon and would not be seen. But for a

white man is a different matter."

"Waste a whole day jus’ waitin’!" Anse protested.

"_Señor_, when one balances time against death, then I would say time is

the better choice," Hilario replied. "But this day will not be wasted. If

any watch us—as well as those horses—they will see us about our business

and will have no doubt that we hunt wild horses, not stolen ones."

So Drew and Anse joined the mustangers’ hunting. To Anse this was

something he had done before. Drew remembered that the Texan had been

working with just such a hunting party when his family had been wiped out

by the Comanches in ’59. But to Drew it was a new experience and he was

deeply intrigued by what he saw and the reasons for such action.

All they sighted of the Pinto’s now thoroughly thirsty band was the stud

himself and a black mare—La Bruja—looking down from a vantage point high

on a rocky rim. And the hunters did not try to reach them, knowing that

all the wild ones would be long gone before they could reach that lookout.

"This is the fourth day." Hilario Trinfan sat his buckskin at the water

hole, watched Teodoro make careful adjustment of the blankets tied on the

bushes. "They will be wild with thirst. Tomorrow the blankets will be

taken down. There will be no sign of man here. By mid-afternoon the mares

will be ready to fight past the Pinto for water. He can not hold them

away. So, they will come and drink—too much. Perhaps he will come, too. If

he does"—Trinfan snapped his fingers—"I shall be waiting with a rifle. We

take no more chances with that one! Anyway, the mares will be heavy and

slow with all the water in their bellies. They can be herded into our

trap. Then he will come, _sí_, that one will come—no one can take his

mares from him! He will be mad with rage, too angry to be any longer so

cunning. We shall have him then. And there will be no more killings of

studs here."

At dusk Running Fox slipped down to the camp, but not far enough into the

circle of firelight to be sighted by any watcher in the night. Then with

Drew and Anse he was off again.

Within less than a quarter-hour Drew could have laughed wryly at his past

satisfaction in his prowess as a scout. Compared to this flitting shadow

he was a bush bull crashing through the brush. Anse was better, much

better, but even he was far below the standard set by the Pima. The trio

climbed, crept, crouched for long moments waiting for Drew knew not

what—some sound, some scent, some sight in the night which Running Fox

would accept as assurance of temporary safety.

The Kentuckian had no idea of how long it took them to reach the perch

into which they at last pushed. A breastwork of rock was before him; the

half circle of a shallow cave cut off a portion of the star-pointed sky

above. "Stay—here." The two words were grunted at them out of the dark.

Then nothing ... Running Fox had vanished in a way which could make a man

believe they had been escorted not by a living Pima, but by a ghost from

that long-forgotten race which had left their houses scattered in canyon

niches up and down this country.

It was cold, even though the half cave shielded most of the wind. Drew

unrolled the blanket he had carried tied about him, and he squeezed down

beside Anse. Their combined body warmth ought to keep them fairly

comfortable. Drew doubled his hands inside his coat, wriggling his gloved

fingers to keep them from stiffening.

"Sure do wish there was some way a fella could bring him a little

invisible fire along on a trip like this," Anse commented. "Ain’t goin’ to

be what I’d name right out as a comfortable night."

"Never seems to be any easy way to do a hard thing," Drew assented. He

hugged himself, his hands slipped back and forth about his waist. Under

his two shirts—he had added the second before he left the Stronghold—the

band of his money belt made a lump and now his hands ran along it.

He had had no occasion to open any of those pockets since he had left

Tubacca the first time. Now, to take his mind off immediate discomfort, he

tried to estimate by touch alone how many coins still remained in the two

pockets. The middle section of the three divisions held his papers. There

were those for the horses, the parole he had brought from Gainesville, the

two letters he had not been able to bring himself to deliver to Hunt

Rennie. One was from Cousin Merry, and the other was a formal,

close-to-legal statement drawn up by Uncle Forbes’ attorney. Both were

intended to prove the identity of one Drew Rennie beyond any reasonable

doubt.

Drew’s fingers stilled above that pocket. It felt too thick, bunchy under

his pinching. Whatever—? He squirmed around, free of the blanket, and

began to pull off his gloves.

"What’s th’ matter?" the Texan began in a whisper.

"Just a minute!" It was a clumsy business, pulling the belt free from

under his layers of heavy clothing. But Drew got it across his knee. His

chilled fingers picked at the fastening of the pocket. There was no packet

of papers there—neither the sheets for the horse, nor the much-creased

strip of the parole, nor the sealed envelope which had held both letters.

Instead he plucked out what felt like shreds of grass and leaves, dry and

crackling.

"What is it?" Anse leaned forward.

"My papers—they’re gone!" Drew rummaged frantically, turning the pocket

inside out. When—who?

"What papers, _compadrê_?"

Drew explained.

"You’ve been wearin’ that there belt constantly, ain’t you?"

"Yes. Except—" He suddenly tensed. "That night, down by the swimmin’ hole,

when you thought you saw somethin’ in the bushes ... remember?"

"I remember. Looky here, who’d want ’em—an’ why?"

"Shannon!" And in that moment Drew was as certain of that as if he had

actually seen Johnny stripping them out of the belt.

"How’d he know you were carryin’ anythin’?"

"He knew I had the belt. I left it with Topham when I raced Shiloh, and he

saw me give it to him. And, Anse, he must have heard you call me ’Rennie’

in the Jacks! If he did, he’d want to find out more—Rennie’s not a common

name. And Shannon’s not stupid. He’d figure anything valuable I’d be

carryin’ would be in this belt."

"How come you didn’t know it was gone?"

"I don’t know. Seemed just as heavy and that pocket didn’t ride any

different when I had it on. No reason to open it lately."

"So—what’s he got? Your hoss papers, your parole outta th’ army, an’ them

two letters. Yeah, he’s got jus’ ’bout all he needs to make one big war

smoke for you."

"And I can’t prove he has them," Drew said bleakly.

"Jus’ by makin’ him one little private fire," Anse went on, "he could

about put you outta business, _compadre_. There’s only one thing to do."

"Such as?"

"Johnny Shannon has got to do some talkin’ his ownself. An’ we can’t wait

too long to invite him to a chin-waggin’ party, neither!"

Anse was right. Shannon had only to slip that collection of papers into

the nearest fire and he would put an end to Drew Rennie. Of course Drew

could obtain duplicates of the letters and horse papers from Kentucky, but

that might take months. And he did not know whether the parole could be

reissued from army records. Why, at this moment he could not prove that he

had served in the east with the Army of Tennessee. Let Bayliss come down

on him now and he was defenseless....

"We can’t ride tonight," Anse added. "But come first light we give a

look-see here an’ then we move—straight back to th’ Stronghold an’

Shannon. Also—I’m sayin’ this ’cause I think it’s good advice, Drew. Now’s

th’ time you’ve got to go to th’ Old Man an’ tell him th’ truth, quick as

you can. Sure, I know why you didn’t want to claim kin before, but now

you’ll have to."

Drew shook his head. "Not now—not with nothing to back up my story.

Shannon could give me the lie direct."

"I’m thinkin’ you’re showin’ less brains than a dumb cow-critter, _amigo_.

But, lissen—I’m backin’ your play. Does Shannon cut up rough, he’s got two

of us hitchin’ a holster steady an’ gittin’ ready to loose lead."

"No, I’m not goin’ to drag you in."

"Yeah—an’ I mean yeah! We joined trails a long time back, by that there

mill pond in Kentucky, and we ain’t splittin’ now. If a storm’s walkin’ up

on us slow—or comin’ fast with its tail up—it’s goin’ to be both of us

gittin’ under or out together."

Drew put on the belt again. His impatience bit at him, but what Anse said

made sense. They had been sent here to do a job and in the morning they

would do it. Then they could ride back to the Stronghold. How he was going

to handle Shannon he had no idea, but that he would have to he was sure.

The first light was a gray rim around the world as they lay flat, training

the glasses Hilario had loaned them on two horses grazing not too far

below.

"Well, that’s it. U.S. As big an’ plain as th’ paint on a Comanche face

an’ almost as ugly. Them’s army mounts an’ I don’t see no troopers

hereabouts," Anse said.

Running Fox materialized in his ghostly fashion, and they retraced at a

better speed and less effort the path which had brought them to the canyon

perch. Just as they were about to top the ridge behind the mustanger camp,

the Pima held up a warning hand.

"Long knives...."

"Troopers?" They went to their knees and made a stealthy crawl to the

crest of the ridge.

There were troopers down there, all right. The Trinfans sat on their

saddles while an officer walked up and down before them. Running Fox put a

finger on Drew’s arm and motioned to the left. The horses of the

mustangers were browsing in a small dell, their night hobbles unloosed.

Together the trio moved in that direction.

The Pima slipped ahead with a speed and efficiency of motion his

companions envied. He had the two nearest horses in hand, leading them

toward the bushes.

"Looks like we ride bareback." Anse caught at a hackamore, then mounted.

"Move!" Drew waved Running Fox to the other horse. "We can’t wait to get

another horse. You ride for the Stronghold, make it straight to Rennie and

report. I’m stayin’ here. I can say we were fired and Trinfan took me on

as a hand."

Anse was the better rider under these circumstances, and the better scout.

To wait to pick up a third horse was folly.

"What about Shannon?"

"Shannon’ll have to wait!" Drew slapped the Texan’s horse. It reared and

then pounded off. Drew turned to walk back to the camp. He rounded the end

of the ridge and stopped short. The round and deadly mouth of an Army Colt

was pointed straight at his middle, covering the disastrously empty pocket

of his money belt.

13

A lantern provided a very small and smoky light on a table of three boards

mounted on boxes. If the furniture was makeshift, the walls of the room

were not. Logs and adobe were just as effective for the purpose of

confinement as stone blocks. Drew sat up on a bunk shell of board holding

straw, and rested his head between his hands. He could follow the action

which had brought him here, trace it back almost minute by minute over the

past three days. How he had come here was plain enough; why was another

matter.

Lieutenant Spath, back in the mustangers’ camp, might have accepted the

Kentuckian’s story. Or he might at least have been uncertain enough not to

arrest him, if only Trooper Stevens had not been one of the patrol. Once

before Stevens had been most vocal about Rebs who were too free with their

fists. Spath’s trooper guard, reporting the escape of Running Fox and

Anse, had condemned his captive fully as far as the lieutenant was

concerned. The troopers had then searched their prisoner and to them a

loaded money belt worn by a drifter did not make good sense, either—unless

too much sense on the wrong side of the ledger. Drearily Drew had to admit

that had he stood in the lieutenant’s boots, he would have made exactly

the same decision and brought his prisoner back to the camp.

So here he was now—just where Bayliss had promised to see him—in an army

detention cell, with no proof of identity and the circumstantial evidence

against him piling up by the minute. All they needed was some definite

proof to tie him to Kitchell and he was lost. He had to pin his hopes on

Anse—and _Don_ Cazar.

Drew ground his boot heel into the dirt floor. That was just what he had

sworn he would never do—call upon Hunt Rennie for help. Especially now,

since the troopers had discovered those army-branded horses back in the

canyon and Bayliss would try to use that against Rennie. Anse’s escape had

been a short-sighted solution, Drew knew. To the captain such action only

tied the Range in deeper. The Kentuckian ran his fingers through his hair,

trying to think of something which had _not_ gone wrong.

The plank door banged open and Drew’s head came up with a snap. No use

letting these Yankees think they had him worried. The lantern, feeble as

it was, picked out the stripes on the blouse of the first man, the tin

plate in the hands of the second.

Drew looked down at the plate as it was slid under the bars and across the

floor of his cell.

"Stew, Sergeant? Ain’t that overfeedin’? Thought bread and water was more

the captain’s style for Reb prisoners." Drew was pleased that he was able

to sound unconcerned.

"Cocky one, ain’t you?" asked the man who had brought in the plate. "All

you Rebs is alike—never know when you’re licked—"

"Get along, Farley, that’s enough," Muller broke in.

Drew picked up the plate and forced himself to spoon up its contents. The

stuff was still warm and not too bad. After the second spoonful he

discovered that he was hungry—that much he would not have to pretend.

"Kid!"

Sergeant Muller’s bulk shut most of the lantern glow out of the cell.

"You young squirts’re all alike—never take no advice. But I’m gonna give

it, anyway. When th’ cap’n sees you, you button your lip! He ain’t one as

takes kindly to no smart talkin’, ’specially not from a prisoner. As far

as he’s concerned he’s got you about dead to rights—hoss thievin’ from th’

army."

"I’d like to know what proof he has," Drew returned sharply. "Your patrol

picked me up well away from those horses—in the mustanger camp where I was

workin’—and Captain Bayliss can’t prove that’s not true, either. Anyway,

what difference does it make to you, Sergeant?"

"Since you ask, I don’t rightly know, kid. Maybe you was spoilin’ for a

fight in th’ Jacks an’ did push our boys—"

"But you don’t think so, Sergeant." Drew put the plate on the bunk and

stood up to approach the bars. Muller was the taller; the Kentuckian had

to raise his eyes to meet the sergeant’s. The trooper’s face was mostly in

the shadow, but it was plain the man did not mean him any ill.

"I got m’ reasons." Muller did not make any straighter answer. "But you

think o’ what th’ cap’n does know about you, kid. You go ridin’ ’round

with gold on you—more money than any drifter ever sees in ten years or

more. You’re caught near where some stolen army stock is stashed away, an’

your partner lights out hell-for-leather, breaking through army lines. An’

we only got your story as to who you really are. I ask you—does that read

good in the lieutenant’s report when th’ cap’n gets it?"

"No," Drew answered. "But what do you suggest doin’ about it, Sergeant?"

"Got anybody in town as will speak up for you, Kirby? Reese Topham? He did

before."

"He doesn’t know any more than what he said right then. Trouble is,

Sergeant, anybody I could ask to back me up I’d have to bring out from

Kentucky—and I don’t believe Captain Bayliss would wait for that."

"You work for Rennie, don’t you?"

"Hunt Rennie has nothing to do with this. He didn’t know those horses were

on the Range——"

"Because you put them there, Kirby?"

Muller made a lightning about-face. He snapped to attention facing the

captain.

"And what are you doing here, Sergeant?"

"Prisoner bein’ fed, sir!" Muller reported stolidly.

"And there is no need for conversation. Dismissed, Sergeant!"

The captain watched Muller leave before he turned once more to Drew.

"Kirby, do you know the penalty for horse stealing in this country?" he

snapped.

"Yes."

"Then you must know just what you have to face."

"Captain ..." Drew began slowly, wanting to make his words just right.

There was no reason to let Bayliss think he could simply ride right over

his prisoner. On the other hand Muller’s advice had been good; it would be

dangerous to antagonize the officer. "I had nothing to do with those

stolen horses. We found them, yes, but they were already in the canyon.

And there were two men guardin’ them—up on the ridge. They must have

cleared out when your patrol rode in, but they were there the night

before."

"You saw them?"

"No, our scout did."

"What scout—that Indian who got away with your partner? I heard rumors

that Kitchell had links with bronco Apaches, but I didn’t believe any

white man could stoop so low."

"That Indian"—Drew felt as if he were walking a very narrow mountain ledge

in the dark, with a drop straight down to the middle of the world on one

side—"was a Pima, one of the Stronghold scouts."

"So—Hunt Rennie _did_ know about those horses!" Bayliss pounced.

"He did not! He sent us to the mustanger camp with a message, and the Pima

rode scout for us. It’s a regular order on the Range—take one of the Pimas

if you are goin’ any distance from where you can fort up. You can find out

that’s true easily enough." Drew was striving to keep a reasonable tone,

to find an answer which _must_ pierce through Bayliss’ rancor. After all,

Bayliss could not have held his present rank and station so long and been

all hot-headed plunger.

"What was this so-important message Rennie had to have delivered to a camp

of Mex mustangers?" Bayliss bored in. Even in the lantern’s restricted

light Drew could see the flush darkening the other’s face.

"They are havin’ trouble with a wild stud—a killer. Mr. Rennie wants him

killed, quick. He sent the two of us out to help—thought with more hands

it could be done."

"Kirby!" Bayliss’ fists were on his hips, his head pushed forward from his

shoulders until his sun-peeled face was only inches away from the bars

between them. "Do I look like a stupid man, a man to be fed stories? You

ride into town on a blooded stud, with a mare of like breeding, and a belt

loaded down with gold. You give out that you served with Forrest—Forrest,

a looting guerrilla and a murdering butcher! You’ve heard of Fort Pillow,

Kirby? That’s what decent men remember when anyone says ’Forrest’ in their

hearing! Only you can’t even prove you were one of that gang of raiders,

either, can you? Now I’ll tell you just who and what you are.

"You’re one of Kitchell’s scavengers, come into town with gold for

supplies and a chance to contact the people you want to meet. I’ve known

for a long time that Topham, Rennie, and probably a dozen other so-called

citizens of that miserable outlaws’ roost are backing Kitchell. Now here’s

a chance to prove it!"

"Not through me, you don’t," Drew cut in. "I’m just what I said I was from

the beginnin’, Captain. And you can’t prove anything different."

"I don’t have to prove it; you’ve convicted yourself, Kirby. You can’t

account for the gold you’re carrying. And, if you rode with Forrest,

where’s your parole? You know you were told to carry it. I can deal with

you just as any horse thief is dealt with. Why, I’ll wager you can’t even

prove ownership of those horses you brought with you. Where’re your sale

papers? On the other hand, Kirby, if you do give us the evidence we need

against Kitchell and those who are helping him, then the court might be

moved to leniency. How old are you? Nineteen—twenty—? Rather young to

hang."

"Captain, I can prove everything I’ve told you. In Kentucky I have kin.

They can——"

"Kentucky!" Bayliss snorted. "Kentucky is far away, Kirby. Do you expect

us to sit around waiting for some mythical kin of yours to appear from

Kentucky with another set of lies to open this door?" He pounded with one

fist against the cell portal. "I’m a reasonable man, Kirby, and I’m not

asking too much—you know that. What’re Kitchell, Rennie, Topham to you

that you’re willing to face a noose for them?"

"Kitchell I know nothin’ about—except what I’ve heard and that’s not

good." Drew sat down on the bunk, partly because the chill which had crept

down his back had poured into his legs and they felt oddly weak under him.

"Reese Topham and Mr. Rennie—as far as I’m concerned they’re honest men. I

don’t think, Captain, that you can prove I’m not, either."

"There is such a thing as over-confidence, Kirby, and it always comes to

the fore in your kind!" Bayliss returned. "But after you do some serious

thinking I believe you’ll begin to see that this is one time you’re not

going to be able to lie or ride yourself out!"

He left without a backward glance. Drew picked up the plate, pushed the

spoon back and forth through the congealing mess left on it. He could not

choke down another mouthful. Just how much power did Bayliss have? Could

he try a civilian by court-martial and get away with it? And to whom could

Drew possibly appeal? Topham? Rennie? Apparently Bayliss wanted them

enough to suggest Drew testify against them. Did he actually believe Drew

guilty, or had that been a subtle invitation to perjury? The Kentuckian

set the plate on the floor and got up again to make a minute study of the

cell. His thought now was that maybe his only chance would be to break

out.

But his first appraisal of the detention quarters had been the right one.

Given a pickax and a shovel, and an uninterrupted period of, say, a week,

he might be able to tunnel under one of the log walls. But otherwise he

could not see any other way of getting free—save to walk out through the

cell door. Drew threw himself on the bunk and tried to think logically and

clearly, but his tired body won over his mind and he slept.

"Hey, you! Kirby, wake up! There’s someone here to see you!"

Drew reached for a Colt which was no longer under his pillow and then

rolled over and sat up groggily, rubbing one hand across his smarting

eyes. The lantern light had given way to dusty sunshine, one bar of which

now caught him straight across the face.

"All right, Kirby, suppose you tell me what this is all about!"

Drew’s head came up, his hand fell. Hunt Rennie and Lieutenant Spath stood

side by side beyond the bars. Or rather, not Hunt Rennie, but _Don_ Cazar

was there—for the owner of the Range was wearing the formal Spanish dress

in which Drew had first seen him. And his expression was one of

withdrawal.

"They think that I’m one of Kitchell’s men and that I had something to do

with those stolen horses we found on the Range." He blurted it out badly.

"They also showed me about six hundred dollars in gold found on you,"

Rennie returned. "I thought you needed a job. You told Topham that, didn’t

you?"

"Yes, suh." Drew’s bewilderment grew stronger. Hunt Rennie sounded as if

he believed part of Bayliss’ accusation!

"That money’s rightfully mine," Drew added.

"You can prove it?"

"Sure. Back in Kentucky...." Drew paused. Back-in-Kentucky proof would not

help him here and now in Arizona.

"Kentucky?" Rennie’s withdrawal appeared to increase by a score of miles.

"I understood you were from Texas."

"Told you, Rennie," the lieutenant said, "his story doesn’t hold together

at all. A couple of really good questions and it falls right apart."

"I came here from Texas." Drew took stiff hold of himself. He was walking

that narrow ledge again, and with a wind ready to push him off into a

bottomless gulf. "Rode with a wagon train as far as Santa Fe—from there on

with military supply wagons to Tucson. I was in Kentucky after the war;

went home with a boy from my scout company...."

"Who gave you two blooded horses and a belt full of gold for a good-by

present?" scoffed Spath.

"_Have_ you any proof of what you say closer than Kentucky?" Rennie

ignored the lieutenant’s aside. "I can account for your time on the Range,

or most of it. But you’ll have to answer for this money and where you came

from originally. What about your surrender parole? I know you did have

papers for the horses—Callie saw them. Produce those...."

"I can’t." Drew’s hands balled into fists where they rested on his knees.

"Sure you can’t—you never had any!" Spath returned.

"I had them. I don’t have them now." What was the use of trying to tell

Rennie about his suspicions of Shannon? And if Johnny had destroyed the

papers as well he might have, Drew could never make them believe him,

anyway.

"Kirby, this is serious!" said Rennie. "You ride in from nowhere with two

fine horses wearing a brand you say is your own. You have more money than

any drifter ever carries. You claim to be a Texan, and yet now you say all

the proof of your identity is in Kentucky. And—you are not Anson Kirby’s

cousin, are you?" That last question was shot out so suddenly that Drew

answered before he thought.

"No."

"I thought so." Hunt Rennie nodded. "Education is a polisher, but I don’t

think three or four years’ schooling would have made a Texas range rider

ask for sherry over whisky—except to experiment with an exotic beverage.

There were other things, too, which did not fit with the Kirby background

once Anson turned up. Just who are you?"

Drew shrugged. "That doesn’t matter now—as the lieutenant and Captain

Bayliss have pointed out—if my only proof is in Kentucky and out of

reach."

"I suppose you have heard of telegraphs?" Rennie’s sarcasm was cold.

"Communication with Kentucky is not so impossible as you appear to think.

You give me a name and address—or names and addresses—and I’ll do the

rest. All you have to do is substantiate background and your army service,

proving no possible contact with Kitchell. Then the captain will be forced

to admit a mistake."

Give Hunt Rennie the name of Cousin Meredith Barrett, of Aunt Marianna’s

husband, Major Forbes—the addresses of Red Springs or Oak Hill? Drew could

not while there was a chance that Anse might find the papers or make

Johnny Shannon admit taking them. The Kentuckian could _not_ tell Hunt

Rennie who he was here and now.

"I want to talk to Anse," he said out of his own thoughts. "I’ve got to

talk to Anse!"

"He’s gone." Rennie’s two words did not make sense at first. When they

did, Drew jumped up and caught at the bars.

"Gone? Where?"

"Cleared out—got clean away." Again Spath supplied the information. "Or so

they tell us. He went back to the Stronghold after he broke through our

lines. But when a patrol rode down to get him, he was gone."

"Why?" Drew asked. "Why pick him up?"

"Why? Because he’s in this, too!" Spath retorted. "Probably rode straight

to Kitchell’s hideout. Now, Mr. Rennie, time’s up. The captain authorized

this visit because he thought you might just get something out of the

prisoner. Well, you did: an admission he’s been passing under a false

name. We know _what_ he is—a renegade horse thief."

Drew was no longer completely aware of either man. But, as Rennie turned

away, he broke through the mist of confusion which seemed to be enclosing

him more tightly than the walls of the cell.

"Shannon. Where’s Shannon?"

Hunt Rennie’s head swung around. "What about Johnny?" he demanded.

"He took my papers—out of my belt!" This was probably the worst thing he

could do, to accuse Johnny Shannon without proof.

"What papers, and why should he want them?" If Rennie had been remote

before, now he was as chill as the Texas northers Anse had joked about.

"The parole, the horse papers, some letters...."

"You saw him take them? You know why he should want them?"

Drew shook his head once. He could not answer the second question now.

"Then how do you know Johnny took them?"

How did he know? Drew could give no sane reason for his conviction that it

had been Johnny’s fingers which had looted the pocket of papers and

stuffed leaves and grass in their place.

"You’ll have to do better than that, kid!" Spath laughed. "You must have

known Shannon was gone, too. By the time he’s back from Mexico he won’t

need to prove that’s a lie."

Drew disregarded the lieutenant’s comments—Rennie was the one who

mattered. And in that moment the Kentuckian knew that he had made a fatal

mistake. Why hadn’t he agreed to telegraph Kentucky? Now there was no

hope. As far as _Don_ Cazar was concerned, one Drew Kirby could be written

off the list. Drew had made an enemy of the very person he most wanted to

convince. The Kentuckian swung around and walked to the one small, barred

window through which he could see the sun. He walked blindly, trying not

to hear those spurred boots moving out of the door ... going away....

14

Three good strides one way, four another to measure the cell. Morning sun,

gone by noon, daylight outside the window becoming dusk in turn. They fed

him army rations, delivered under guard. And the guard never spoke. There

was no use asking questions, and Drew had none left to ask, anyway.

Except, by the morning of the second day after Rennie’s visit, his wonder

grew. Why was Bayliss delaying a formal charge against him? This wait

could mean that the captain was not finding it so easy to prove he really

did have a "renegade horse thief" in custody. But Drew knew he must pin no

hopes on a thread that fine.

What had happened to Anse? And Shannon—gone to Mexico? He must have ridden

back with the _Coronel_. Drew could expect nothing more from Rennie, or

Topham. The Trinfans? Spath had marched them back, too, along with his

prisoner, but the lieutenant had not had them under arrest. The mustangers

were well known in this district and could prove their reason for being

where they were found. And Kitchell had raided one of their corrals last

season, so they had no possible tie with the elusive outlaw. Probably by

now the Trinfans had returned to their hunt for the Pinto.

No, there was no use thinking that anyone was going to get him out of

this—no one but himself, and he had bungled badly so far. Drew, his body

tired with pacing the small cell, flung himself down on the bunk and

listened to the sounds of the camp. He had pretty well worked out the

routine by those sounds. The camp itself was a makeshift affair. Its core,

of which this cell was a part, was an old ranch building. There were tents

and a few lean-tos, on a plateau bounded on the east by a ravine, on the

west by a creek bottom. Huts of stone, rawhide, and planks served as

officers’ quarters. In fact it was no more a fort than the bivouacs he had

known during the war. Unfortunately this room was the most substantial

part.

If he could only get out, and pick up his horses, then perhaps he could

head for Mexico. There was a war on down there; a soldier could find an

anonymous refuge in a foreign army. Shelby’s whole Confederate command had

crossed the Rio Grande to do just that. That part was easy. To get out of

here—that was what he could not accomplish.

Two men always came together when they fed him, and they didn’t open the

cell door, but just pushed the plate through. A sentry was on duty

outside. Drew could beat time to the sound of those footfalls day and

night. And suppose he did get free of the cell; he would have to have a

horse, supplies, arms....

Drew rolled over on the cot and buried his face on his folded arms. He

might as well try to get out of here by using will power alone to turn

locks! They left the lantern burning all night to keep a light on him, and

the sentry looked in the peephole every time he passed.

The Kentuckian did not know just when it was that he became conscious of

the noise overhead. Lizards—maybe even rats—could move about the beams,

hidden by the age-browned manta strips. But surely this was too late in

the season for a lizard to be so lively by night when the temperature

dropped with the rapidity of a weight plunging earth-ward. And rats

aloft....

Drew did not change his position on the bunk, but his body tensed. No rat

would stay in one place, gnawing with such purpose and concentration at a

spot in the darkest corner of the cell roof. Anse? How or why the Texan

could be at work there, Drew did not know. But that there was a stealthy

attempt being made to reach him from above he was now sure.

His teeth closed on his wrist as he lay listening, to that scratching

above, to the regular advance and retreat of the sentry. He heard the man

pause by the door and knew he was under inspection. Well, let the Yankee

look! He would see his prisoner peacefully sleeping.

Now the trooper was moving on, the noise above became sharper. There was a

slight crackle. The linen roofing sagged under a burden, and Drew caught

his breath in a gasp. Miraculously the yellow cloth supported the object—a

bulge as big as a saddlebag. A portion of the roof which had given way?

The scratching, which had stilled, began again. Then the bulge was gone,

pulled away from above. Dust sprinkled down from the disturbed manta. In

the next instant Drew moved.

Using his hands on either side of his body, he raked up the straw which

filled the box bunk. In a swift moment, timed to the sentry’s passing to

the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor,

slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too

good—it certainly would not fool any inspection within the room. But in

the lantern light and this far from the door, the improvised dummy might

satisfy the glance of the sentry for some precious seconds.

Drew was across the cell, flattened against the wall under the still

quivering strip of material. More bulges appeared and disappeared,

fragments fallen and retrieved. Then a sharp point pierced downward, the

tip of a knife slitting the tough stuff. A slash, and the manta peeled

back against the wall of the cell.

"_Señor_—?" It was so faint a whisper Drew hardly caught it.

"Yes!" He looked up with desperate eagerness into what he had hoped to

see—the dark splotch of a hole.

A rawhide lariat smoothly braided, oiled into supple silkiness, dangled

through. Drew got his hands on it, pulled it back against the wall as the

sentry returned. He held his breath during that pause beside the spy hole,

a pause which lengthened alarmingly. Then his body jerked in answer to a

sound a half second before he realized what manner of sound. The sentry

had sneezed. He sniffled, too, loudly; then he went on to complete his

beat. The blanket and the straw—they had worked!

Drew pulled at the lariat, was answered by a return jerk. He jumped and

began to climb. Then, with a wrench he was through the hole, other hands

helping to pull.

"Come—pronto!" The hands were pushing, urging. He wriggled forward.

Teodoro Trinfan! But why?

There was no time to ask; Drew could only obey directions. They made a

worm’s progress along the full length of the old ranch building, and

dropped the lariat for a ladder to the ground. They crossed the small part

of the camp near the ravine with the same caution they had used on the

roof.

"_Señor_..." Teodoro’s lips were at Drew’s ear as the boy pressed against

him in a thin cover of shadow. "Left—a big stone—put your hands on

it—swing about and down."

Drew had to take that on blind trust. He had no idea what kind of a drop

waited below, and only by firm will power did he follow orders. But his

boot soles met a solid surface. Then he was caught about the waist and

Hilario’s voice whispered to him.

"_Señor_, you stand—so." Hands fumbled about him, looping him with a

supporting lariat. "Now—we go! Your hand, _señor_." Drew’s left hand was

caught in a tight grip which pulled him to the right, face to the wall. So

secured, he inched along what he knew must be the face of the ravine, his

toes on some small ledge midway between lip and foot.

Somehow the three of them reached ground level, their diagonal course of

descent putting some distance between them and the camp. In spite of the

cold of the night, Drew was wet with sweat as they threaded through heady

sage brush. Now came the scent of horses, the sound of a hoof stamped

impatiently on gravel.

"Trinfan?"

Topham! Here?

"_Sí._"

At Hilario’s hissed assent, a figure detached itself from the utter black

of the bushes and moved forward into a sliver of moonlight.

"You got him?"

"I’m here, if that’s what you mean!" Drew answered for himself.

"And you’ll be gone, soon," the gambler replied. "But there’s one thing I

have to know, Kirby. Were you telling the truth to Rennie—do you believe

Johnny took your papers?"

What had that to do with the matter at hand? Drew wondered. But from the

urgency of the demand he knew it did mean a great deal to Topham.

"Yes, I’m sure. But I can’t prove it—unless I find them with him. He may

have destroyed them already." Drew put into words the black foreboding

which had ridden him for days.

"Why? What do they mean to him?"

Evasions and lies had gotten him into this mess; now he would see what

stark truth would do.

"Because there were two letters—proof I’m Drew Rennie."

"Rennie?" Topham repeated. In the light Drew could not see his expression,

but his voice was that of a completely baffled man. "Rennie?"

"I’m Hunt Rennie’s son." There, he had said it—and nothing startling

happened. Well, what had he expected—a clap of thunder, a bolt of

lightning, the sudden appearance of a cavalry patrol across the nearest

hilltop?

"So that’s it!" Topham said slowly. "And Shannon suspected? But why the

mystery? And——"

Drew took the questions in turn. "Shannon was at the Jacks when I met

Anse. I thought he was unconscious, but he probably wasn’t. Anse called me

by my right name. As for why—my father doesn’t know I’m alive. He was told

I died at birth, along with my mother. They told _me_ he was killed in the

Mexican War before I was born. It was all because of an old family

feud—too long a story to tell now. I’ve only known for about a year I had

a father here in Arizona ... but to make a claim on him, after all these

years.... Maybe you don’t understand why I didn’t want to." He was telling

it badly, but he’d been a fool about this from the start.

"Understand ... yes, I think I can. There’s a certain strain of

bull-headed independence common to Rennies—I’ve met it head-on several

times myself. And your choice was your own to make. But this ... yes, it

is just the move Shannon would make, given suspicion to push him into

action. And now it may be pushing him even farther."

Drew was a little bewildered by Topham’s ready acceptance of his story

without any proof. But the tone of the last remark caught his full

attention.

"What d’ you mean? What’s happened now?"

"I’ve had suspicions, pretty nasty ones, for some time. But I had your

trouble—no proof. In the last three days I’ve picked up and sorted out a

few very wild cards, and now they make a pat hand. Kitchell has had his

contact here-abouts, all right, just as Bayliss has always insisted."

"You can’t mean Shannon!"

"Johnny Shannon. And if he’s doing what I think he is...." Topham paused.

When he continued he had changed the subject. "Last night Nye rode up from

the Range. Said that Kitchell made a raid, almost a clean sweep. Among

other stock he gathered up was that prize stud of yours."

"Shiloh!"

And Shannon had the horse papers! The Kentuckian was thinking fast now.

"Yes, if Shannon _is_ riding with Kitchell, now he can prove ownership of

that stud and sell him anywhere without trouble." Topham could have been

reading Drew’s mind. "But that’s not as important as something else. Hunt

went hell-bent-for-leather out of here. He’ll gather up that private army

of his and try to trail the raiders. Maybe Kitchell will ride south, or

maybe he’ll head directly back into Apache country. Either way that

trail’s going to be as easy for anyone after him as walking barefoot

through a good roaring fire! Hunt still has blind faith in Johnny.... I

was hoping you could help break that."

"That why you got me out of the camp?" Drew asked.

"Partly. Hunt told me what you said about Johnny taking your papers. I had

you sized up as being too smart to make a claim like that unless you

really believed it. And I thought maybe you could prove it, given a

chance. If you can get to Hunt now ... tell him the real truth before

Johnny rigs something of a double-cross...."

"Would he believe me any more than he did when I accused Shannon?" Drew

asked bleakly. "I’ll head south, all right. Nobody’s goin’ to lift Shiloh

and get away with it as long as I’m able to fork a saddle and push. But if

you’re countin’ on my bein’ able to influence my—my father"—he stumbled

over the word awkwardly—"don’t!"

"I’m counting on nothing," Topham returned. "Just hoping now. For a long

time we’ve heard about Johnny Shannon being a young hothead who found it

hard to settle down after the war. I think there are two Johnnys and we

are just beginning to know the real one. You could be his prime target

now."

"Fair of you to point that out." Drew thought that at last he had found a

real motive for Topham’s services. "I’m likely to be bait, ain’t that the

truth of it?"

"If you are, the trap is going to be there. But now ... get away from

here. Teodoro will ride with you as guide."

"And the army after me. That’s it!" Drew had mounted. "That’s what you

want, isn’t it? Me to pull the troops south? Huntin’ down an escaped horse

thief they might slam into Kitchell...."

What a trick! Topham had planned it without asking Drew’s support. But it

called for enough audacity, luck, and nerve to be appealing. During the

war the Kentuckian had seen such schemes win out time and time again.

"Why ain’t Bayliss already ridin’?" he asked. "Hasn’t he heard about the

raid?"

"He’s been heard to say a man can raid his own stock as a cover-up."

"What’s wrong with him? Is he deaf, dumb, and blind!"

"No, just prejudiced and ridden by envy until he’s not able to think

straight any more. But he’ll track you and follow quick enough!"

"He sure will. All right ... we ride."

They did, Drew depending on the younger Trinfan’s guidance. And, while

Teodoro set a meandering trail, it was not one which a determined pursuer

would have too much trouble following, come sunup or whenever that sentry

discovered he was guarding a straw prisoner.

Once when they pulled up to breathe their horses, dismounting to loose

cinches and cool the backs of the mounts, Drew indulged his curiosity

further.

"How come you knew just where to make that hole to let me out?"

Teodoro laughed. "That was easy, _señor_. That was the Garza Rancho—only

six months has the army been there. Many times we have camped within its

walls when we brought in the best of the wild catch for sale. I know those

buildings very well. When _Señor_ Topham tells my father what must be

done, we could plan well and quickly. I have heard what you said to

_Señor_ Topham, that you are the son of _Don_ Cazar. Why did he not know

of this? Why have you never lived here with him?"

"He didn’t know I was alive, and I didn’t know that he was. My

grandfather—my mother’s father—he hated _Don_ Cazar very much, because of

a duel and other things. So my father took my mother away secretly,

brought her to Texas when they were both very young. Then _Don_ Cazar went

to war and the news came that he had been killed. My grandfather went to

Texas and took my mother home with him. She died a few months later, when

I was born.

"It was only after my grandfather died, two years ago, that letters from

my father were found among his private papers. These I discovered when I

came home from the war, learning that my father was alive and here in

Arizona. Only we were strangers ... I did not know whether he would like

me for a son, or whether I wanted a stranger for a father. So, when I came

here I took the name of my _compadre_, my friend from the war, Anse Kirby.

I wanted to know my father before I made my claims."

"And _Señor_ Juanito—for this he will hate you!"

"Because I did not tell who I was at the start?" Drew asked.

"No—because you are truly _Don_ Cazar’s son. Always _Don_ Cazar, he

treated _Señor_ Juanito as a son, but I do not think that was enough.

_Señor_ Juanito, he is one who must have everything, all. Even when he was

a boy, he was like that. Bartolomé Rivas, he braids beautiful ropes, and

he made one for Juanito. Always I wanted a rope like that. I would watch

Juanito use it and wish. Then once we spend Christmas at the Stronghold

... it was after my father was hurt and _Don_ Cazar had us to stay there

so he could tend my father’s wounds. Had _he_ been with us when the wild

ones stampeded, my father would not walk crooked, but we got him back to

the ranch too late. But that is not what I would say. It was Christmas and

_Don_ Cazar gave to me a rope like that of Juanito, a fine rope which felt

as if it was a part of a man’s own arm when he swung it. Two days later,

that rope, it was gone, never did I find it. But I knew—I had seen Juanito

watching me when I tried that fine rope. And I knew his thoughts: no one

must have a rope as good as Juanito’s! Not long after that he ran away, to

join the army. But really that was because _Don_ Cazar caught him beating

one of the Indios. Only that is not generally known. The Indio was being

taught by _Don_ Cazar to have charge of the grain storage, and Juanito

thought that Indios are as dirt—should have no place among Anglos. _Señor_

Juanito would hate with a black hate anyone who had a right to be a son at

the Stronghold, a better right than he could claim. He must always be on

top, at the head. Sometimes it would seem that he would, if he could, push

aside _Don_ Cazar himself.... Now I think we should ride again."

By dawn Drew had no idea where they were except that they pushed south.

Whether they were now on the Range he did not know. And how in the

immensity of this hostile country, they could fulfill Topham’s hopes and

lead the troop patrol to Rennie’s posse, was something the Kentuckian did

not even try to answer. The border lay south. If Kitchell had made such a

sweeping raid, he would be certain to run the animals in that direction,

for the outlaw was fully aware of Rennie’s reputation and temper, and knew

that _Don_ Cazar would trail him with set determination.

This meant the outlaw must have set up some plan for avoiding pursuit.

Rouse the Apaches? Or prepare an ambush? Either could work. Then Bayliss’

men could be a saving factor. If the Kentuckian could locate Rennie, and

ride in to his camp—or skulk close enough to it—that should bring the

troops down.

But where was Anse? The Texan had not simply cleared out because of

imminent trouble, Drew was sure of that. Had he followed Shannon to

Mexico? This was one time when Drew could well understand the exasperation

and frustration felt by an officer whose scouts did not report in as

ordered and who had no idea of the disposition of reinforcements. Talk

about going into something blind! But still he rode at a steady,

mile-covering pace southward.

15

"Still south...." Teodoro pointed out the hoof prints deep in the soft

earth beside the water hole. Drew steadied himself with one hand on the

stirrup leathers as he stooped to see more clearly. He was groggy with

lack of sleep and felt that if he once allowed himself to slip completely

to ground level, he would not get up again.

"Rennie’s riders?"

Teodoro was on one knee, conning the mass of tracks as if they were a

printed page. "_Sí_—there is the mark of Bartolomé Rivas’ horse. It has a

misshapen hoof; the shoe must always be well fitted."

"How far are they ahead now?" Drew had come to depend upon the young

mustanger’s judgment. Teodoro apparently was close to a Pima in his

ability to read trace.

"Two hours—maybe three. But they will be at the pass and there they will

stay."

"Why?"

"I think they will lay a trap for the raiders. There has been no sign that

they trail now behind driven horses. _Don_ Cazar does not pursue; he rides

to cut off the road to Mexico. Kitchell’s men, they would not take the

open Sonora trail, that is folly for them. So they travel one ridden by

men with a price on their heads. If Kitchell now moves south to stay, he

will have with him all that he can carry, and he must come this way."

"If he hasn’t gone already!"

"There is no sign," Teodoro repeated stubbornly.

"So we keep on ahead." Drew got down on both knees, splashed the muddy

water-hole liquid into his face in an effort to clear his head.

They had changed mounts twice since leaving the camp, both times at the

water forts on the Range. And the second time they had chanced three

hours’ sleep and a hot meal. But the rest of the time it was ride, chew on

jerky and cold tortillas, and depend on Teodoro’s sense of direction to

take them eventually to their goal—the outlaws’ gate into Mexico. Drew had

long since stopped looking over his shoulder for any thundering advance of

cavalry. If Bayliss was hunting the fugitives, he was not pushing the pace

too hard.

"Not ahead, no." Teodoro drank from his cupped hand. "We go so...." He

sketched a gesture east.

"Why?"

"It is never well to be shot by one’s friends." The mustanger achieved a

half smile, stretching the skin of his gaunt young face. "Always it is

better to see before being seen."

When they started he led the way to the left at a walk. Drew, aroused now,

looked about him carefully. This was rough country cut by pinnacles of red

and yellow rock, backed by the purple ridges of the greater heights. It

was desert land, too. They had long since left the abundance of the valley

behind them. Here was the stiff angularity of cactus, the twisted

vegetation of an arid land.

The crack of a carbine shattered the empty silence. Drew pulled on reins

as a second shot dug up a spurt of dust just beyond Teodoro’s mount.

"Hold it! Right there."

That disembodied voice could have come from anywhere, but Drew thought it

was from above and behind. Someone, holed up in the rocks, had them as

perfect targets. The Kentuckian did not try to turn his head; there was no

use giving the sharpshooter an excuse.

"All right, you...." The voice was hollow, its timbre distorted by echo.

"Throw off your guns an’ git down ... one at a time ... th’ Mex first."

Drew watched Teodoro slide out of the saddle.

"Stand away from that hoss ... easy now."

The mustanger obeyed.

"Now you ... do jus’ like him."

Drew followed instructions carefully.

"Hands up—high! Now turn around."

They turned. A figure had detached itself from among the rocks they had

passed moments earlier and came down toward them carbine ready.

"Anse!" Drew stumbled toward the Texan. The other’s hat was gone. A torn

shirt sleeve flapped about his left arm, allowing sight of a neckerchief

knotted about his forearm. His coat trailed from one shoulder. "What in

the world happened to you?"

Anse sat down suddenly on one of the boulders, his gaze on Drew. He shook

his head slowly.

"I ain’t sein’ things," he said. "That’s you, ain’t it? Say—got any

water?" His tongue curled over cracked lips.

Drew snatched the canteen from his saddle and hurried forward. More than a

bloodstained bandage marked Anse, he could see now. He waited while the

other seized the canteen avidly and drank. Then the Texan was smiling at

him.

"Seems as how we’s always meetin’ up, don’t it now? Likewise it’s always

to m’ benefit, too. Only this time I’ve got me somethin’ to trade. You

keep on goin’ down this trail, _compadre_, an’ maybe you’ll wind up with a

spade pattin’ you down nice an’ smooth."

"What happened?"

Anse drank again with the discipline of a plains rider, a mouthful at a

time.

"What didn’t would be more like it, _amigo_. Yesterday, well, they got m’

hoss—tried to git me. Only left their mark, though," Anse said, regarding

his arm ruefully. "I’ve been wearin’ off boot heels hoofin’ it ever since.

Tryin’ to make it back to that there water hole."

"Who shot your horse?"

"I didn’t see no name printed big ’cross his jacket, but I’m thinkin’ it

was Shannon."

"You were in Mexico?"

Anse shook his head. "No, an’ Shannon ain’t there, neither. I trailed

along—ridin’ th’ high lines careful—when he went with that there Mex

_Coronel_ an’ his men. Stayed with him ’bout a day, Shannon did. Then

another man, Anglo, rode into their camp—had him a chin fest with Shannon,

an’ Johnny saddled up pronto, beat it with th’ stranger. Thought he might

be headin’ home, but he weren’t. So I kept on ridin’ into their dust an’

waitin’ to find out what it was all ’bout.

"Shannon an’ this hombre, they hit it up a pretty good lick till they got

well away from th’ Sonora trail. Then they skimmed it down till you’d

think they had all month an’ a handful of extra Sundays to git wherever

they was goin’. Plumb wore me down amblin’ ’long th’ way they did. I sure

’nough ’bout scraped off my hoss’s hoofs cuttin’ down his speed.

"Spent a whole day jus’ loungin’ ’round in one camp. I’d say they was

waitin’ for someone—only nobody ever showed. So they went on, me

followin’. I’ll tell you one thing. This new hombre Shannon took up with,

he was a real hard case. A short trigger man if I ever laid eye on one.

Anyway we jus’ kept on, with me tryin’ to think iffen I should Injun up to

git th’ drop on ’em or not. Seemed to me, though, as how it might be

brighter to kinda jus’ drift their way an’ see what’s makin’ ’em rattle

their hocks out in th’ middle of nowhere.

"Guess I weren’t as smart as I thought I was. As I said, yesterday

suddenly they give th’ spurs an’ lit out. Me, guess I got kinda upset

’bout losin’ ’em an’ followed a bit too hasty. Hoss came down with a hole

in him. Me, I took another. Gave ’em a good sight of a man plugged where

it means th’ most an’ that musta convinced ’em I wasn’t no problem no

more. So—that was what happened. I jus’ pulled as green a trick as a

sod-buster tryin’ to crawl a wild one! An’ where Shannon is now I don’t

know—only I don’t think it’s in Mexico."

"Probably with Kitchell." Hurriedly Drew filled in his own experiences and

what he had learned from Topham.

Anse looked about him. "For territory what looks so bare," he commented,

"this stretch of country sure must have a sight of population wanderin’

’round in it. Th’ Old Man an’ his posse somewheres up ahead, an’ Shannon

an’ that side-kick of his, an’ Kitchell maybe, as well as th’ Yankees

hotfootin’ it behind you—or so you hope. Lordy, this’s gonna be th’ Battle

of Nashville over again’ do they all meet up! All we need is a coupla bull

pups up on one of them ridges an’ we could blow ’em all to hell-an’-gone!

Jus’ which bunch is goin’ to claim us first?"

"_Señores_, that is already decided," Teodoro said quietly.

Drew looked up. Where had they come from, those four? Out of the rocks

themselves? He only knew that now they were there, rifles over their

forearms, ready to swing sights on the three below. His heart gave a

lurch—Apaches? And then on the far right he recognized Greyfeather,

Rennie’s chief scout. And it was Greyfeather who pointed to them and to

the way ahead, who gave an emphatic wave of the hand which was an order.

Leading their horses, they obeyed, the Pimas falling in behind.

The back-door route to the pass was a rough one. They had to leave the

horses and climb, two of the Pimas always in sight behind, guns ready.

Anse sighed.

"Seems like we have lots of luck—all of it plain bad. These Injuns run us

in an’ as far as th’ Old Man’s concerned we’re jus’ what everybody claims

we is. We’re a coupla saddle bums as is only on th’ loose ’cause we got up

earlier an’ owned faster hosses than th’ sheriff! How’d we ever git our

saddles slipped ’round so wrong, anyway?"

"I did it," Drew said bitterly. "It’s not any of your doin’, Anse. Tied

myself up in a string of lies and now they have me tight. So help me,

Anse, if I ever get this unsnarled, I’m never goin’ to open my mouth again

to say more’n ’yes’ or ’no’!"

The Texan laughed. "You ain’t never been one to color up a story redder’n

a Navajo blanket! An’ don’t take on th’ whole pack of this when only ’bout

th’ salt bag is of your buyin’. You ain’t responsible for Kitchell, nor

Johnny Shannon, nor Bayliss’ wantin’ to down th’ Old Man. Can’t see as how

much of this is your doin’, after all."

Rennie had set his ambush at the pass with care. At first sight there was

no evidence of men lying in wait, but from the heights over which the

Pimas brought their charges, Drew caught glimpses of men crouched behind

sheltering rocks. The bulk of the Range posse was gathered in a hollow on

the south side of the pass and it was there that Greyfeather delivered his

catch.

_Don_ Cazar surveyed them almost without interest. "Bayliss released you

then," he said to Drew.

"No. Reese Topham and the Trinfans broke me out." Drew kept to his recent

vow of truth-telling. And, he noticed with a spark of something

approaching satisfaction, the truth seemed able to shake Rennie a little.

"Reese Topham broke you out! Why?" The demand was quick and to the point.

"He wanted me to play fox for the army’s hounds ... bring the troopers

south ... here," Drew replied. "Bayliss wouldn’t march out and Topham

thought that you needed some support—with Kitchell apparently on the

move." Telling the truth did not mean you had to tell all of it. There was

no reason to bring Shannon into this now and antagonize Rennie all over

again.

"He what—?" His father was staring at him now with pure amazement. "But

that doesn’t make sense," he added as if to himself.

"No? I think it does, suh. Kitchell wouldn’t have dared to raid the Range

if he were goin’ to stay in this country, would he? And after such a raid

he’d head south. You believe that much or you wouldn’t be here waitin’ for

him now. Nobody knows how many men ride with that gang—and maybe he can

pull in the Apaches, too. They wouldn’t pass up a good chance to get back

at you. You have the reputation of being about the only white man in this

territory to make them turn tail and give up a fight. Now—supposin’ you do

get Kitchell stopped here at the pass—and the army patrol comes in behind

him. Then together you can finish him, and perhaps some bronco Apaches

into the bargain. It could work."

Drew paused and then went on. "Of course, I have a good reason of my own

for being here, apart from not wantin’ to swallow Captain Bayliss’ brand

of justice. Kitchell’s men took Shiloh. And nobody, nobody at all, suh, is

goin’ to run off that horse—not while I’m able to do something about it!"

"Seems to me, suh," Anse cut in now, "that three more guns is gonna be

healthy for you to have ’round here, does th’ fight work out th’ way it

can. Me, I don’t make no big brag on my shootin’—but I never did wear no

six-gun, nor tote no carbine, jus’ for show."

"Of course, if you think we’re Kitchell’s plants," Drew added, "then keep

us under guard. Only we’re not and never were."

"Topham, Topham planned this?" Rennie still showed surprise. "I don’t—"

A bird called flutingly. Rennie stiffened. Men moved, up slope, into

cover, without direction.

"You two ... get up there, behind those pointed rocks," _Don_ Cazar

directed with a stab of his finger. "I’ll be right behind you."

"We ain’t about to give you no trouble," Anse said as he obeyed, and Drew

agreed as he followed the Texan into hiding.

"I’d like a rifle jus’ ’bout now," Anse remarked. "Only thing I’ve ever

held ’gainst a six-gun is that it don’t throw lead as far as a fella could

sometimes want it to. But I think we’ve sorta been ruled outta this here

fight—’less th’ enemy gits close ’nough to spit at."

Now they could see down the cut of the pass. The narrow passage wound

between rocks and Drew, though he could not spot them, did not doubt that

Rennie’s forces were snuggled in where a surprise volley could do the most

good.

"Somethin’ sure is comin’." Anse had one hand flat on the ground. "Feels

like th’ whole danged army hoofin’ it an’ fast!"

Drew was aware of it, too—the vibration carrying through stone and soil.

The drumming of hoofs, horses coming at a run. Now it was more than

vibration, a distinct roll of sound magnified and echoed. And he caught a

shout or two, the cries of men hazing on laggers. It must be Kitchell on

his way through to the border!

A dust haze, rising like smoke. Then the foremost runner of the band

appeared in the cut, the whites of its eyes showing, patches of foam

sticky on chest and shoulder. Five ... ten ... an even dozen—but not a

gray coat among them. One light buckskin had almost startled Drew into

rising until he caught a second and clearer look.

The leaders were through and a second wave was coming. Drew counted twenty

more horses before the first rider appeared. His face was masked against

the dust by a neckerchief drawn up to eye level. But, unlike the ordinary

range rider, he wore an army forage cap in place of the wide-brimmed hat

of the plains. As he spurred by below Drew’s perch he glanced up but

seemed to have no suspicion that he was under observation.

There came more horses, and Drew stopped counting. But the gray he sought

was not among them. The shouts of the drivers were louder. And then, as

three men appeared bunched, there was a crackle of shots. Two of the

riders fell, one leaning slowly from the saddle, the other diving into the

dust. The third tried to turn but did not get his horse around before a

mule pushed into him, followed by another and another. The horse thieves

were trapped. Drew could hear the sharp snap of shots along the pass. More

than those three must have been caught in the ambush.

The mules, braying and running wild, thundered on south after the horses.

Then a saddled horse, riderless, galloped by with a second at its heels.

Confused shouting rang out, without any meaningful words. This was as much

a muddle, Drew thought, as any battle. You never saw any action except

that immediately about you—mostly you were too busy trying to keep alive

to care about incidentals. Come to think of it, this was about the first

time he had ever sat out a fight, watching it as a spectator.

The roll of firing was dying down. Anse grinned at him.

"Takes you right back, don’t it now?" he asked when he could be heard.

"Th’ Old Man, he’s got him some of th’ Gineral’s idears—work good, too!"

"I didn’t see Shiloh in that band." Drew stood up. "Couple of duns ... no

grays."

"Come to think of it," Anse agreed, "that’s right! But lookit that bay

down there." He pointed to one of the saddled horses that had a dragging

rein caught in a dead juniper stump and was trying to pull loose. "Got th’

RR brand! Some of these must be from th’ Range raid."

"Hey—down here—!" The hail broke down the pass from the north. Rennie

climbed over his rock barricade, and other men came out of cover to move

up the cut. Since no one tried to stop them, Drew and Anse went along.

"Got us two of ’em ready to talk!" Jared Nye strode to meet his employer.

"They’re Kitchell’s gang, all right. Only he ain’t with ’em."

"_Patrón_—" For the first time since he had known him Drew saw Bartolomé

Rivas run. He was weaving in and out among the fallen men in the pass.

"They ride." He was half choked by the effort to force his message past

heavy gulps for breath.

"Who rides?" Rennie demanded.

"Three—four men ... that way." He waved a plump hand to the east. "They go

like the wind, _Don_ Cazar. And one—he rides the big gray!"

Drew whirled. The big gray—there was only one horse to be named so on the

Range. Some of the outlaws had escaped the trap and one was riding Shiloh!

Drew found the horse with the tangled rein, jerked and tore at the leather

strap, and was in the saddle when a hand caught at the rein he had just

freed.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Hunt Rennie demanded.

Drew snapped the rein out from the other’s hold. There was only one thing

he wanted now, and that was getting farther and farther away with every

second he wasted here.

"After Shiloh!" He used spurs on the horse and it leaped ahead. For all he

knew any one of the posse might take a shot at him, so he rode low in the

saddle. He heard startled cries, saw Bartolomé Rivas stumble as he got out

of the path of the wild horse. There were rocks, sand, a body which the

horse avoided in a leap, then there was free ground and Drew settled down

to ride.

A horse was coming up from behind—they need not think they were going to

stop him now. Drew turned his head as the mount pulled level with his own.

He was ready to fight if need be. Only the man in the saddle was Hunt

Rennie.

"Better find out which way to go before you break your neck or that bay’s

legs," Rennie called. "Out beyond that pillar—then east."

Drew nodded. But Rennie did not fall back. He was riding his heavy duty

horse, a grulla famous for its staying power. And now the Kentuckian

regained his proper share of common sense and began to pull in the bay. As

his father had pointed out, a broken neck or a horse’s broken leg was not

going to bring Shiloh any closer. He heard the sound of other horses and

glanced back as they wheeled around the pillar to the east.

Four riders were bunched—Anse, Nye, Teodoro, and Donally. That made six of

them in all, pursuing four fugitives over miles of countryside which might

have been shaped with no other purpose in mind than to shelter men on the

run. But perhaps they could come up with the quarry soon....

Shiloh! He had to get Shiloh! Drew began to call upon all the horseman’s

knowledge and scout’s lore that he possessed. Those qualities, rather than

fighting power, were what he believed he needed now. With luck—always with

a large-sized helping of luck!

16

"Now that you have that bucked out, how about a little sound reasoning?"

Hunt Rennie still held his position, riding stirrup to stirrup with Drew.

The worst of it was, _Don_ Cazar was right. This was no time for raw

emotion to replace thinking. Already it was almost dusk and their quarry

could not be traced into the dark, even if they had the aid of a full

moon. The Kentuckian reined in. Growing shadows masked the country

ahead—rough territory—which he did not doubt the fugitives knew far better

than he did.

"All right." It was difficult, one of the most difficult things he had

ever done, to admit even that much that he must follow Rennie’s lead.

"What do I do now?"

"You still think you can go it alone—want to?" Rennie’s face was shadowed,

and his voice again held that remote note.

"It’s my horse." Drew was defensive.

"Stolen on my range," Rennie retorted. "This is far more my fight than

yours. If we didn’t get Kitchell back there at the pass, and I’m inclined

to believe that we did not, then I want him! You don’t kill a rattler by

cutting off his rattles—you go for the head. But this rattler’s on his

home land and he knows where to hole up. We have only one card to play

against him."

"What’s that, suh?"

"Water. Oh, I know all the rumors that the Apaches have secret water holes

back in the hills, and they may have introduced Kitchell to some of them.

But the hills are behind him. He’ll want just one thing now, to get south,

across the border. He’s lost a large number of his men, probably all of

his loot, back there at the pass. He can’t hold out here any longer. Once

he’s into Sonora we can’t touch him—I know he has friends down there."

"Could he try to take the wagon road south?"

"As a last resort, perhaps. The pass was the only outlet through which he

could run that band of stolen horses and his pack mules. But there are

other places, at least two I know of, where a few men, riding light, can

get through. I believe he’ll try to head for one of those."

"Make it ahead of us now?"

Rennie laughed shortly. "If he does, he’ll have a warm reception. The

Pimas are already scouting both passes. We planned to close the border

when we set up that ambush. Meanwhile"—he glanced back—"Teodoro!"

"_Sí, Don_ Cazar?"

"How far are we from your hunting-camp site?"

"Two, maybe three miles. Slow riding in the dark, _Don_ Cazar."

"We’ll head there. That—except for the hole behind us which Bartolomé will

cover—is the only water for miles. And we’re between Kitchell and the

border spring. One thing he will have to have is water. We stake out the

pools and sooner or later they will come to us."

It made sense, but still Drew was impatient. Out there one of Kitchell’s

men, or perhaps the outlaw himself, was riding Shiloh. The fact that

Rennie’s plan seemed a gamble did not make it any easier to follow. But

the Kentuckian could think of nothing better to offer.

The moon was rising as they came to the water hole near the mustangers’

camp. Men and animals drank together, and when Drew dismounted his

weariness hit—hard. Fatigue was a gray cloud in his brain, a weight on

arms, legs, body. Voices around him sounded faint and far away as he

steadied himself with a grasp on the stirrup leathers and fought not only

to keep on his feet but awake.

"What’s the matter with you, boy?"

Drew tried to lift his head, tried to summon words to answer that demand.

A sullen kind of pride made him release his hold and stand away from the

bay, only to reel back and bring up hard against a rock, grating his arm

painfully. He clung there for a moment and got out:

"Nothing a little sleep won’t cure." He spoke into the dark outline of

Hunt Rennie. "I’m all right."

Drew made a painful effort, pulled himself away from the rock to fumble at

the cinches of the bay’s saddle, only to be pushed aside.

"Steer him over there, Perse ... bed him down."

The Kentuckian’s last scrap of protest leaked away. He hardly knew when a

blanket was pulled up over him as he lay in a rock niche, already drifting

into deep sleep.

Voices awoke him into the gray of early morning. The light was hardly

brighter than moonlight but he could make out Hunt Rennie, sitting

cross-legged, rifle to hand, while Chino Herrera squatted on his heels

before him. Chino had not been with them when they left the pass. And

there was Greyfeather, too. Their party had had reinforcements. Drew

pushed away the blanket and sat up, realizing he was stiff with cold. Fire

... hot coffee ... there was no sign of either. He yawned and jerked his

coat straight about him. His attention suddenly focused on an object which

lay on the ground at Chino’s left. It was a book, the same size as the

three he had bought at Stein’s!

Without thinking, Drew moved forward, was about to reach for the volume

when he heard the click of a cocked Colt. A hand swept down on the book.

"You, hombre—what do you want with this?" Herrera, with no friendliness in

either voice or eyes, was holding a gun on him.

"That book—it looks like the ones I bought in town." Drew was startled by

the vaquero’s enmity.

"Give it to him," Rennie ordered.

For a moment Herrera seemed on the point of open dispute, then he obeyed.

But for some reason his weapon remained unholstered. Drew took up the

volume.

"_History of the Conquest of Peru_," he read out. The binding was a match

for that of the other three. But—there _was_ something different. He

weighed the volume in his hand. That was it! This book was heavier....

"Well, hombre, you have seen such a one before?"

"Yes, this is bound to match those I bought from Stein. And one of those

was _History of the Conquest of Mexico_. This is surely a part of the same

library."

"Those—what did they have in them?"

Rennie appeared content to let Chino ask the questions, but he continued

to watch Drew and the book.

"Have in them?" Drew repeated. "Why pages. They were books to read—_The

Three Musketeers_, _The Count of Monte Cristo_, and _History of the

Conquest of Mexico_. That’s all, just books."

"Open this one," Rennie told him.

The Kentuckian had trouble obeying. And for the first time he saw he did

not hold a book composed of pages but a type of box. The cover resisted

his tugging. Then, as if some catch had been mastered, it opened so

suddenly he almost lost his grip on the book. The core of those once

separate pages had been hollowed out to contain a nest of raw cotton on

which lay ... The Kentuckian gasped.

Even in this subdued light those stones glittered, and their settings were

gold and silver. Drew saw elaborate pieces, the like of which he had never

seen before.

"There was a mule shot back in the pass," Rennie explained. "His pack was

opened. Three books were in it—one of them fell out and burst open."

"This one?"

"No, it held gold coin. _Hard Times_ by Charles Dickens—the contents

hardly indicative of the subject, were they? Upon investigation a _Wonders

of the World_ produced more coin. And, as you see, _History of the

Conquest of Peru_ was even more fruitful. You are sure this binding

matches that of the books you bought?"

"Certain. This was bound to order, as were the other three. They were part

of someone’s personal library—had no bookplate, though."

"And what was Stein’s story concerning them?"

"An old prospector named Lutterfield found them in a trunk in some cave he

located out in the desert country. He brought them in to trade for

supplies."

"Lutterfield," Rennie repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, that could be."

"Trunk in a cave?" Herrera was skeptical. "But why leave books in a trunk

in a cave?"

"One of Kitchell’s caches? Or else left by someone who cleared out in ’61

and had to travel light. If anything remains, perhaps Lutterfield can

locate it for us later. Anyway this"—Rennie took the book box from Drew,

clapped the cover over, hiding the treasure—"won’t go to Mexico now. And

if the owner is still alive, we may even find him—who knows? You had your

sleep out, boy?"

Drew found Rennie’s expression one of indifference. Maybe _Don_ Cazar no

longer regarded him with the cold dislike Drew had met at the camp, but

they were still strangers. What he had once said back in Kentucky at a

remote and distant time was very true now. "Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn’t know

I exist; maybe we won’t even like each other if and when we do meet ... I

don’t know...."

Now Drew thought he did know. Was this insurmountable barrier all his

fault? Because he had been so sure he wanted to go it on his own—come to

his father as an equal and not a beggar? But could he ever have acted

differently? Too independent, too defensive always—Alexander Mattock had

made him like that. Now it seemed that his grandfather had won, after all.

Because his grandson was the kind of man he was, there would be no meeting

with Hunt Rennie to claim kinship, nothing more than what now existed.

"I’m all right." After too long a pause, Drew replied to his father’s

question. "Do we just keep on sittin’ here?"

"If necessary, Chino, pass those supplies you brought in. We eat cold, at

least for now."

"You look ready to up saddle ’n ride." Anse was waiting behind Drew’s

rock. His arm rested in a sling with a neat and reasonably clean bandage

about his wound.

"How’s that hole?" Drew asked with renewed concern.

"Nothin’ much more’n a nick. Say, th’ Old Man’s like a real doc, ain’t he?

Carries doc’s things in his saddlebags an’ patched me up last night so I’m

near as good as new. After I drunk th’ wrinkles smooth outta my belly an’

had me some shut-eye, why, I’m as right as four aces in any man’s hand!

’Course I sure could do with some coffee—’bout strong ’nough to float a

hoss shoe gentle like. But we ain’t bendin’ lip over that this sunup.

Lordy, this jerky sure gives a man’s chewers a workout!"

They chewed away at the dark sun-dried _carne_ of the border country.

There was about as much flavor in it as in a piece of wood, but it kept a

man’s insides busy and about half satisfied. And they did have water.

Drew looked out over the land about them. Rennie had their small force

stationed to cover every approach to the water hole, and with the Pimas

here too, Drew was sure that they would not be surprised. Would Kitchell

follow the pattern Rennie expected—try to water here? And then strike for

the south? With his men scattered, many killed or taken at the pass, he

had very little choice.

For some reason the quartet of fugitives must have been trailing quite a

distance behind the main band, and so had been warned in time by the

gunfire. Was one of that four Shannon? And what would it mean to Rennie if

Shannon did turn up now with Kitchell?

Drew jerked back against the boulder, reacting to a screech from somewhere

out in that wild country—a fierce, mad sound which tore at the nerves. He

had heard its like before, but never rising so to the pitch of raw

intensity. It was the challenge of a fighting stallion, one of the most

terrifying sounds ever to break from the throat of an animal.

From the pocket meadow came the answering squeals of their own mounts, the

pounding of hoofs as they fought their stake ropes.

"_Don_ Cazar!" It was Teodoro. "The Pinto comes—and would fight!"

Again that shriek of rage and utter defiance. The rocks echoed it eerily,

and Drew found it hard to judge either distance or direction. The wind was

rising, too, scooping up dust to throw against men and boulders. But that

wild stud could not be too far away, and what had stirred him to this

point of vocal outburst?

"Teodoro," Rennie called, "get back there and see if you can quiet those

horses."

Drew reached for the carbine he had taken from the boot on the saddle of

the captured bay. Army issue ... Spencer. He appraised it with the sharp,

quick scrutiny of a man who had had to depend on enemy weapons before.

Just how had this fallen into outlaw hands? The arm was well kept, ready

for action.

Horses turned mean, turned man-killer at times. And the Pinto was reputed

to be a murderer of his own species. Not just content to protect his band

from a raiding stallion, he actually went out of his way to seek and force

a fight with other males. Could it be that now the wild killer had been

drawn from hiding to meet a strange stallion?

And could that stranger be Shiloh? It would mean the men they sought were

circling back to this water hole. Shiloh and the Pinto! Even when saddled

and ridden, the Kentucky stallion might respond to the challenge. And so

handicapped he would have no chance! Drew bit hard on his underlip.

The yap-yap of a coyote sounded brazenly from the ridge behind which Drew

was almost certain the Pinto had trumpeted.

"Pass the word," said Rennie. "Riders coming."

Anse hissed it on to Donally, who hid in the brush behind. Drew lay tense,

as if his whole body was able to listen and assess sounds.

Waiting, as always, fretted the nerves. Imagination gave birth to sounds,

made the quiver of a bush unnatural, planted in a man a growing sense of

eyes boring down on his body, nakedly visible to the enemy. Drew’s muscles

ached. He forced tight rein on his imagination and began the hard task of

consciously schooling himself past the danger of a freeze when and if

attack did come.

Wind moaning about the rocks, sand blown in eyes and face. Twice Drew half

put out his hand to the canteen which lay between him and Anse. Both times

he did not complete the reach. His tongue felt swollen, the saliva in his

mouth sticky, sickly tasting.

No sun—this was going to be a cloudy, overcast day.

He half arose. That scream came again, this time closer, more rage-filled.

Drew turned his head.

"Cover me!" He did not give Anse a chance to protest.

That slope ... he had been studying it carefully for long moments of the

wait, gauging the distances between bits of cover, the tricky open spaces

he would have to cross. But the riders they had been alerted to expect

were not in sight, and if what he truly believed was about to happen did,

the outlaws might never reach the water hole at all.

He was running, dodging, working his way up to the crown of the ridge. But

he was still too low to see what was going on at the far side when that

scream of challenge was answered. The answer was deeper in tone, but it

carried with it the same rising note of anger and fighting promise.

Although Drew had never seen Shiloh prepare to give battle, he was sure he

had just heard him voice such readiness.

The Kentuckian flung himself flat before he reached the skyline, wriggling

on in a desperate crawl. Then he lay panting in a small earth dip, only a

ragged fringe of grass between him and the down slope.

Even in the swirl of wind-blown dust there was no mistaking Shiloh—rearing

and fighting to dislodge his rider, wheeling about in a circle. Three

other horses and their riders had edged well beyond the circumference of

that circle, the horses neighing and snorting.

The squeal of the Pinto was ear-wrenching, though as yet the killer stud

had not appeared in plain sight. The cry triggered Shiloh into a fantastic

effort. He reared, striking out with front hoofs, perhaps in an effort to

keep his balance. Drew fully expected to see him crash over and back.

Apparently his rider feared the same fall. In the dusty murk the man

separated from the horse. Shiloh whirled and pounded back, away from his

rider, and as he went he voiced once more his answer to the Pinto.

Drew sighted a dark spot moving in to intercept the gray. Then the spot

turned broadside and he appreciated what had made the Pinto so elusive to

hunters. The mottled red-and-white patches of the wild stud’s coat melted

into the landscape in an uncanny fashion, making the horse seem to appear

and disappear as he trotted back and forth.

The Kentuckian tried to bring the Spencer in line with that weaving,

distorted barrel of spotted body. What was the range? Too far, he was

afraid, for a shot to count. But he knew that he could not lie there and

watch the Pinto cut down Shiloh in one of those vicious, deadly, equine

duels. The Kentucky horse had no fighting experience, and his greater bulk

and height would mean little against the wily cunning of the murderer who

had already tasted blood too many times. To allow Shiloh to be ripped to

pieces was utterly unthinkable.

The men down there no longer mattered. Drew rose to one knee, steadied the

carbine, and fired.

Did the Pinto really flinch from a bullet striking home? Or had the

dangerous sound of gunfire caused his old caution to win out for an

instant over his blood lust? The red head with the dangling white forelock

tossed, and then the wild horse whirled and ran. Shiloh, teeth bared,

ready and willing to come to battle, followed....

Drew was on his feet. Then he was pulled backward by a jerk out of

nowhere, and he fell under a brown, mostly bare body which pinned him

firmly to the ground.

17

Drew struggled wildly but he could not break the grip which held him down.

He was looking up into the face of Greyfeather, and none of his writhing

made any impression on the Pima’s hold. There was a sprinkle of shots;

then a whirl of the wind brought sand up over them, blinding eyes, filling

mouth and nose. Even the Indian flinched from that and Drew managed to

tear loose. He rolled down the grade, bringing up against a small tree

with a jolt which drove most of the air from his laboring lungs.

He pulled his arm up across his face, trying to shield his eyes from the

blast which thickened steadily, gasping for air to breathe. And the wind

voiced a howl which arose as alarmingly as the stallions’ screaming.

Stallions! Drew clawed his way up to his knees. But there was no seeing

through that murk to where Shiloh had been. Then he was on his feet,

stumbling along ... the big gray must be hidden somewhere....

"Drew!" A figure blundered into him from behind, almost sending him to the

ground again. "Get down, you fool!" Hands clutched at his body, trying to

pull him earthward.

"Let me go! Shiloh—"

"Get down!" Anse’s whole weight struck him, and he fell, the Texan

sprawling with him. It was only then that he heard the spatter of rifle

fire and understood that they were in the middle of an exchange of lead

slugs.

"Keep down!" Anse, his voice ragged with anger, snapped the command in

Drew’s ear. "What in thunder you tryin’ to do? You gone completely loco,

_amigo_? Walkin’ right out to git yourself shot like them bullets was

nothin’ but pecans or somethin’ like!"

For the first time Drew realized what he had done—blown Rennie’s carefully

planned trap sky-high. His shot at the Pinto must have been warning enough

for the fugitives. But why were they trying to make a fight of it now,

when to cut and run would have been the smartest move? Unless, having seen

only one man, they believed he was alone. He tried to rub the dust from

his eyes and think coherently. But all that was in the forefront of his

mind was that last sight of Shiloh following the Pinto to battle.

"All right." Drew shifted in Anse’s hold. "It’s all right."

Not that it was, but at least that was the best way he could express his

return to reason. And the Texan appeared to understand, for his grip

loosened.

The dust which had blown up an opaque curtain dropped as quickly. They lay

together on the far side of the ridge, but the space below was empty. They

saw no men, no battling horses—nothing.

"They’ve hightailed it," someone called from the crest of the ridge.

"I tell you ... I got one of ’em.... He’s over between those two bushes.

He’d pulled up to take up th’ fella runnin’ an’ went out of th’ saddle.

Other man got his hoss an’ lit out."

Drew stood up.

"Where you goin’ now?" Anse demanded.

"Where d’ you think?" the Kentuckian asked dully. "After Shiloh."

He went on foot, down the slope, across the open where the gray had

unseated his rider and turned to take up the Pinto’s challenge. Since the

horses were no longer in sight, there was only one way they could have

gone—to the east.

Drew was in the open when another of those wild sand and dust flurries

caught him. Buffeted here and there, staggering, his arm up over his face,

he was driven by its force until he brought up against a rock wall. With

that as a guide he kept on stubbornly, because once more he had heard the

scream of the Pinto. In triumph? Drew shivered under a thrust of fear

which left him sick. He was sure that that murderous red-and-white devil

had finished off Shiloh.

Along the wall ... keep going.... The dust was thinning again. Drew’s hand

was on the Colt Topham had supplied. The Spencer lay back on the ridge.

But if any kind of fortune favored him now, he was going to shoot the

Pinto—if it was the last thing he ever did.

There was a clear space ahead once more. The sullen gray sky gave only

dulled light, but enough to see by.

Drew had heard many stories of the fury of the stallion battle, and he had

seen fearsome scars ridging the hides of two of the Range studs. But

actually witnessing such a battle shook him. Teeth ... hoofs ... blood on

Shiloh’s shoulders and flanks ... a strip of flesh dangling.... But Drew

saw that the Pinto was marked, too.