His father’s black brows drew together in a slight frown. "Generous? No,
that’s the truth. As for losing Kitchell—we may not have. Those who got
away have Greyfeather, Nye, and others on their trail. And I do not think
they will find such hunters easy to fool. Also, we have a prisoner...."
_Don_ Cazar’s acceptance of their failure was so placid that Drew was led
to make a wild guess.
"Not Kitchell himself!"
Rennie smiled. "No, we weren’t that lucky—_you_ must have had the lion’s
share of that commodity here today. We have a Mexican, name unknown. He
was shot down while trying to pick up the rider Shiloh got rid of—who just
might have been Kitchell. But this prisoner may be moved to tell us about
the three who got away. If these wind storms keep up, they could powder
over the trail and the boys will need help."
The Mexican, his shoulder bandaged, was propped up against the saddle they
had taken from Shiloh. He stared at them sullenly, his gaze finally
centering on _Don_ Cazar when they took places opposite him.
"Some of that coffee for him, Chino," Rennie called. Herrera brought over
a tin cup from the fire now blazing. As the Mexican took it awkwardly with
his left hand, still watching Rennie glassily over the brim, the latter
used fluent Spanish, only a word or two of which Drew understood.
The man grunted and then was assailed by Chino in a hotter flow of his
native tongue, until Rennie silenced the vaquero’s outburst with a wave of
hand and spoke again.
Drew sniffed the aroma of the bacon Donally was frying, his stomach
protesting plaintively.
"What are they sayin’?" he whispered to Anse.
"Old Man pointed out nice an’ plain what th’ Mex’s in for, lessen he
speaks up. This hombre, Rennie thinks maybe he don’t run regular with
Kitchell—more’n likely he came up from th’ south, could be to guide th’
gang back there some place. Iffen th’ Mex can prove that, th’ Old Man
promises to talk for him with th’ law. So far he ain’t said nothin’ much
in answer."
They ate. The prisoner’s round face expressed surprise when Rennie had him
provided with an equal share. He sucked his greasy fingers avidly after he
had wolfed down his portion. A moment later he asked a question of his
own. Rennie replied, nodding vigorously, as if to make assent more
emphatic. Anse translated.
"Th’ Mex wanted to know if th’ Old Man meant what he said ’bout talkin’ up
to th’ law. If so, he may loosen his jaw some. I’d say, if he’s a guide
from down there, he wouldn’t be too set on coverin’ for Kitchell—not when
that might mean gettin’ his own neck stretched. Yeah ... now he’s
beginnin’ to run right over at th’ lip."
The prisoner did loose a flood of words, Rennie and Chino listening
intently, Donally coming to stand behind the others. Drew guessed by his
changing expressions that the Anglo rider was as much at home in Spanish
as Anse. The Kentuckian regretted his own ignorance; the few words he had
picked up along the trail from Texas certainly were no help now.
The Mexican wiped his good hand up and down the front of his worn jacket,
and then smoothed a patch of soil. On it he drew lines and explained each
of them, much as Hilario Trinfan had done for the horse hunters days
earlier.
"What’s he sayin’ now?" Drew demanded of Anse.
"That it’s true he was sent to guide Kitchell south. That train of hosses
an’ loot was th’ gang’s prime pickin’s. Some of it was to grease their way
in with this hombre’s _patrón_—don’t know who _he_ is—some Mex gineral or
such. Kitchell, he rode behind because he had waited for a gringo to meet
him. They was makin’ up time when they heard th’ fight goin’ on in th’
pass. Kitchell headed back here to fill canteens. Th’ Mex was goin’ to
guide ’em south by another trail—one he knows. He’s layin’ it out for th’
Old Man now. It’s a pretty rough one; they’d have to take it slow. Could
be we could catch up before Kitchell makes it—’specially since he don’t
have this Mex leadin’ him now."
When it was necessary Rennie could move fast. He was on his feet giving
orders almost before Anse had finished the translation. Their party was to
be split in two. Drew and Anse were to stay with the wounded Mexican and
Shiloh, and prepare to defend the water hole if the outlaws made a second
attempt to come in. The rest of them would ride for an already designated
rendezvous point where they would meet the party sent to trace the
fugitives.
"Why do I stay, suh?" Anse protested when _Don_ Cazar had finished.
"You can tend that arm better on the ground than in the saddle."
"Ain’t no hurt there any more." Anse hurriedly pulled it from the sling.
"Anyways, that ain’t m’ shootin’ hand, neither!" But one look at Hunt
Rennie’s face reduced him to muttering.
Drew watched their preparations quietly. Then he gathered up two canteens
and filled them at the water hole, went back to loop their carry straps
over Hunt Rennie’s saddle horn. Anse had a bad arm, so it was right that
he should not go chasing hell-for-leather over rough country. But Drew
Rennie—he was left because he was useless in another way. He was a man who
could not be depended upon, who had sprung their trap because he cared
more for a horse than he did for the success of Rennie’s mission.
And in a way Hunt Rennie was perfectly just in that judgment. If it were
all to do over again, Drew knew he would make exactly the same choice.
Shiloh was his—about the only good thing he had ever possessed, or might
ever have in the future. If, in order to keep Shiloh, he had to give up
what he knew now was a very vague dream—he would surrender the dream every
time.
Although he knew that was the truth, the Kentuckian was desperately
unhappy as he made a lengthy business of adjusting the canteens. About the
worst words one could ever speak, or think, were "too late." This was all
too late—twenty years too late. They might have had something good
together, he and Hunt Rennie. Now it was too late.
As Drew heard the crunch of boots on gravel close behind him, he swung
around. "Full canteens," he blurted out. And then, ashamed of his own
confusion, he forced himself to look straight at his father. "Good luck,
suh."
"We’ll need it. I’m leaving you José—he’ll do some prowling. Wouldn’t do
for you to be jumped by Apaches. If we don’t come back in three or four
days and Shiloh’s able to travel, you take the Mexican and head back to
the Stronghold—understand? I mean that."
"Yes, suh." Drew had lost his right to protest, lost it the instant he had
betrayed their ambush. Now he turned quickly and hurried to where Shiloh
stood. The last thing he wanted to see was Hunt Rennie ride away.
Anse kicked earth over the fire when they were gone. "No use showin’
smoke," he remarked, and Drew readily agreed. The horses, with the
exception of Shiloh, were hobbled and allowed the restricted freedom of
the pocket-sized meadow running back from the water hole. Anse and Drew
divided the night into two-hour watches.
"Don’t see as how they’d be fool enough to try chewin’ back on their trail
again, though," Anse commented.
"They need water. Accordin’ to what this guide of theirs says, they’ll
need it doubly bad before they finish that road of his. They might just be
crazy enough to try here—men have gotten away with tricks such as that
before."
"Drew." Anse was only a shadow among shadows, a voice out of the dark now.
"You made up your mind about what you’re goin’ to do when this is all
over?"
"Pull out—California maybe. I don’t know."
"Sure you don’t want to stay?"
"No!" Drew put explosive emphasis into his reply.
"A man can be too stubborn an’ stiff-necked for his own good—"
"A man has to do what he has to," Drew snapped. "I’m turnin’ in. Give me
th’ nudge when it’s time."
He rolled in a blanket, settled himself with his Colt close to hand, and
lay gazing up into the cloudy sky. What was the matter with him, anyway?
All he had to do was stick to his decision. And that _was_ the best one
for him. Resolutely he closed his eyes and tried to will his mind a blank,
himself into slumber.
"Drew—!"
Before his eyes were fairly open his hand was reaching for the Colt, only
to meet a numbing blow on the wrist. The Kentuckian rolled in instinctive
reaction and a second, body-jarring stroke caught him in the ribs. He was
left gasping, still not fully aware of what had happened.
"All right, you—on your feet!" A hand hooked in the collar of his coat to
jerk him up. Somehow Drew did find his feet and stood bent over, his hands
to his bruised side, breathing in small painful gasps. A rib had either
been broken in that assault, or it was cracked.
There were two—three—four figures moving in the moonlight. Then the one
fronting him turned and he saw the face clearly. Shannon!
"Only three of ’em—Benito an’ these two," one of the others reported.
"How’s Benito?" There was authority in that inquiry, but it came from the
one man who kept well back in the shadows.
"Got him a holed shoulder."
"Able to ride?"
"Dunno, suh."
"He’d better be. We need him to find Graverro. These two we don’t need."
"That’s where you’re wrong, Colonel. This here’s about th’ best cover we
could git us now." Shannon laughed. "Mister Drew Rennie, come outta
Kentucky to find his pa—touchin’ story, ain’t it? Real touchin’—like
somethin’ outta a book. Well, does his pa find us, his sonny boy’d be real
handy, now wouldn’t he?"
"You have a point, Shannon. We’ll take him."
"An’ th’ other one, Colonel, suh?"
Kitchell—if Kitchell that shadow was—came out into the moonlight. He wore
the gray shell jacket of a Confederate cavalryman, and the light glinted
on the cords of a field officer’s hat.
"Who are you, boy?" He faced to the left and Drew looked in the same
direction.
Anse stood there, the barrel of a Colt pushed against him just above the
belt line.
"Anson Kirby."
Shannon laughed again. "’Nother big man—says he rode with General
Forrest!"
"That true, Kirby, you were one of General Forrest’s command?"
"It’s true," Anse drawled. "Mean’s nothin’ now, th’ war’s long gone,
hombre."
"Maybe it’s over back east—not here! You stayed to the end, boy?"
"Yankees took me prisoner before that."
"Sergeant Wayne!"
"Yes, suh?" Anse’s captor responded.
"Put him to sleep!"
18
Drew lunged and then reeled back as Shannon laid the barrel of his Colt
alongside the Kentuckian’s head. He was half dazed from the blow but he
managed to get out his protest.
"You murderin’ butcher!"
"Kirby ain’t dead, he’ll just have a sore head tomorrow," Kitchell
returned, as the man he called Sergeant Wayne straightened up from the
Texan’s crumpled form. "And you—you keep a civil tongue in your head when
addressing a superior officer. Shannon, no more of that!" The order stayed
a second blow.
"Oughta shot him for real, suh."
"No. Not a man who rode with General Forrest." Kitchell hesitated and then
added, "We’ll be long gone before he wakes. Tie this one in the saddle if
he can’t hang on by himself. You may be right, Shannon, about him having
his uses in the future."
"Say, Colonel, this here gray hoss, he’s got hisself all hurted bad. Can’t
nohow go ’long with us. Want I should shoot ’im?" That whine came from the
meadow where they had left the horses.
"No, leave him. Won’t do Kirby any good and that’s a fine horse—might just
see him again some day. Sergeant, you fill all the canteens; take any
supplies you find here. Then we’ll move out."
Drew, his wrists corded to the saddle horn, both ankles lashed to the
stirrups, swayed in the saddle as Shannon took the reins of his horse and
led it along. The pain in his head and the agony in his side resulting
from even the most shallow breaths, brought on a kind of red mist which
shut off most of the surrounding night. He had no idea how the outlaws had
managed to jump the camp. And who was the extra man with them now? Only
three had escaped during the horse fight, but four rode in the present
party. He could not think straight; it was all he could do to will himself
to hold on and ride.
Drew was thirsty, so thirsty his tongue was a cottony mass in his mouth.
The day was light and sunny now, and they were single-filing through a
region of bright, colored rock wind-worn into pinnacles, spires, and
mesas. There was no water, no green of living things—just rock and sun and
the terrible need for a drink.
Maybe he moaned; Drew could not be sure. He saw the man riding ahead turn
in the saddle. Blue eyes, the man had, with no honest life in them. Once
before the Kentuckian had seen eyes such as those. It had been in a
cabin—a cabin back in Tennessee in the dead of winter. A young bushwhacker
wearing Union blue, with a murderer’s eyes in his boyish face, had watched
Drew with the same incurious glance which held nothing of humankind.
Shannon; the bushwhacker—two of the same killer breed. But to recognize
that no longer mattered. Nothing mattered save water....
His mount stopped. Drew looked dully at the ground. Then his attention
shifted to the man standing beside his horse.
"Down with you, fella."
Gray jacket, torn and threadbare—yet gray. Drew frowned.
"Sergeant Rennie, Buford’s Scouts...." He tried to identify himself to
this strange Confederate, but the words that got out were a thick mumble.
Then, somehow he was on the ground and the man was holding a canteen to
his mouth, dribbling blessed liquid over that choking cotton. Drew drank.
"Sergeant Rennie ... must report ... General Buford...." He was able to
talk better now.
"Wot’s that he’s sayin’?"
"Somethin’ ’bout some General Buford. Don’t know who _he_ is."
"Buford? Buford rode with Forrest." Those words were spoken by a different
voice, sharper, better educated.
Drew opened his eyes, and for the first time actually saw the men he had
been traveling with. The officer, who was maybe in his mid-thirties, had a
beard trimmed to a point and eyes half sunk in his head. And Shannon—he
had a half-grin on his lips as he stared down, enjoying what he saw when
he surveyed Drew. The one Kitchell called Sergeant Wayne was a big fellow,
even though he was thinned down. He had a square sort of face—jaw too
heavy for the rest of it. Then, Drew’s eyes came to the last man and
stopped.
To the first three there was a uniformity; the remnants of military
training still clung to them. But this shrunken figure with a wild gray
beard, watery, bloodshot eyes, a matted thatch of hair on which a
broken-rimmed hat perched, ragged and filthy clothing ...
"Not gonna haul th’ Mex much farther, you ain’t!" observed this scarecrow
with a touch of relish in the relaying of bad news. "He’s outta his head
now, gonna be clean outta his skin come sundown."
"All right!" said Kitchell. "We’ll camp here ... in that shade." His
gesture indicated some point beyond Drew’s range of vision.
"They’re gonna be sniffin’ ’long right behind us," the sergeant said
dubiously.
"You’re forgettin’ we’ve got us sonny boy here!" Shannon loomed over Drew.
"He’ll buy us out."
"Maybe from Rennie—not from them Yankee troopers."
"I told you"—Shannon lost his grin—"th’ Yanks ain’t gonna come all th’ way
down here! There’s too much pointin’ in th’ other direction. That is, if
you was as good as you said you was, Lutterfield!"
The old man grinned in turn, widely set yellow tooth stubs showing ragged.
"Ain’t never failed you yet, boy. Old Amos Lutterfield, he’s got him those
wot believe wot he says like it was Holy Writ—he sure has! Them
troopers’ll go poundin’ down th’ Sonora road huntin’ wot never was, till
they drop men an’ hosses all along. Then Nahata an’ his bucks’ll tickle
’em up a bit—an’ they’ll forgit there was anyone else t’ hunt."
Drew lay in the position where they had dumped him, his hands still tied,
the ropes on his ankles now knotted together. Had the season been high
summer they would have baked in this rock slit, but it was still
uncomfortably warm. He heard a low moaning and saw Kitchell and
Lutterfield bending over the Mexican. It was plain that the wounded man
had suffered from his enforced ride.
Some time later the Kentuckian was pulled into a sitting position. His
hands loosened, he was allowed to feed himself, but the _carne_ tasted
like wood splinters when he chewed it.
"Not much like th’ Range?" Shannon asked him. "Don’t worry none—it won’t
last long, Rennie, no, it won’t!"
"You did take my papers."
"I sure did! You thought I was clean outta m’ senses back there in th’
Jacks when that fool Texan called out your name—didn’t you now? Well, I
wasn’t an’ what he said sure made me want to know a little more—seein’ as
how Hunt Rennie might well be m’ pa. He owed me a Pa, you know. M’ real pa
was killed gittin’ him outta prison. I didn’t want no drifters cuttin’ in
on what was rightly mine, in a manner of speakin’. So I just waited m’
chance to get at that belt of yours. Found what I wanted—an’ that sorta
made up m’ mind.
"Colonel Kitchell here, he wanted me to go south with him. They have them
a war goin’ on down there; a man can always git ahead in wartime does he
like soldierin’. But I weren’t sure ’bout goin’, till I found out as how I
might jus’ be pushed out, anyway."
"Why did you think that? Hunt Rennie’s always treated you as a real son,
hasn’t he?"
"Like a real son? Like _his_ idea of a son, you mean. Work hard—an’ havin’
books pushed at me. Always jawin’ about education an’ bein’ a gentleman!
Do this, don’t do that—this’s right, that’s wrong. Bein’ soft with
Injuns—Lord, I was sick of bein’ his kind of son when I went off with
Howard. Rennie wasn’t even ready to fight th’ war proper—big man here,
’fraid to try it where he wasn’t! Rightly he was sick of me, too, only his
precious duty wouldn’t let him say so.
"But as long as he didn’t know ’bout you, he’d try, an’ keep on tryin’. I
had me a good place to hole up on th’ Range. With you there he might’n’t
hold on to his patience. First off I thought I might settle you permanent,
then you got took up by Bayliss." Shannon laughed. "That sure was a
switch! Captain thought you was Kitchell’s man, when he shoulda looked a
little closer in a coupla other places."
"But you were shot—by Kitchell’s men."
"I was creased by th’ shotgun rider on th’ stage we tried to stop. Boys
brought me in close to town an’ dumped me on th’ road—gave us a chance to
make up another tale to fool Bayliss. Me, I’ve been ridin’ with Colonel
Kitchell since ’64. We come west from Kansas ’long th’ end of that year.
Th’ Colonel, he saw what might be done out here where it’s a long ride
between sheriffs an’ th’ army hadda think ’bout Injuns most of th’
time—what army there still was in th’ territory. Me an’ old man
Lutterfield, we could help th’ Colonel better not ridin’ with him, but for
him, as you might say."
"And now you’re goin’ to Mexico?"
"In time, Rennie, in time. Th’ Colonel’s thinkin’ out some plans. _Don_
Cazar, he was too lucky at th’ pass."
"You’re not goin’ to get back those horses or mules—or what they were
packin’," Drew said.
"We’ll see, we’ll see." Certainly Shannon’s confidence was in nowise
shaken. "Th’ Colonel, he didn’t want to call in Nahata an’ his bucks—now
maybe he’ll have to. What we need is a lay-up till we can make some good
plans. An’ Benito, he’ll arrange that."
"If he lives." Drew closed his eyes wearily. His face was one bruised ache
where Shannon’s blow had landed, and his side was constant pain.
"You’ll see," Shannon promised. "We’ve got us a big ace in th’ hole—th’
Range boys don’t know as how I’m with Kitchell, not yet. That’s how we
took you so easy back to th’ water hole. I jus’ rode up to José—got that
there Pima listenin’ to me till Lutterfield sneaked up an’ put him outta
business. Lutterfield, he don’t look much, but he was runnin’ in this
country with th’ Injuns thirty years ago. He’s got th’ Apaches lissenin’
to him good. An’ I can talk us through th’ posses—maybe even into th’
Stronghold later."
"You’re a clever man, Shannon," Drew commented dryly.
"An’ you’re too free with that lip!" Drew’s head rocked under a stinging
slap which made fiery wheels of pain roll in his head. He must have been
sent very close to the edge of unconsciousness for a moment or two.
"That’s ’nough, Johnny," said Sergeant Wayne. "Th’ Colonel says to keep
him ready to move. You battin’ him ’round like that don’t do no good."
So Topham had been right—Johnny Shannon was Kitchell’s man. Not that it
mattered now. Even if, by some miracle, Drew could get away from this pack
of wolves, he had no idea of where he was or which way to go. One man
alone and lost in this country faced death as certain as the bullet Johnny
Shannon had already loaded for him. There was only one thing—he was still
alive, and as long as a man lived he had hope.
Nye and Greyfeather had trailed this bunch from the water hole. Perhaps
the wind and sand storms had muddled the tracks, but Drew still had faith
in the Pima. And Rennie’s party had followed with the knowledge of the
Mexican’s bolt hole to the south. Why, right now they could have circled
ahead—could be waiting for Kitchell again as they had at the pass. An
attack could give him a thin chance of escape. He had best keep his mouth
shut and not provoke Shannon, maybe feign being more helpless than he was.
The outlaws had difficulty in getting the Mexican on his horse when they
were ready to move on in the evening. Drew, seeing the man’s swollen face,
his half-closed, set eyes, thought he was in high fever, probably no
longer conscious. Kitchell ought to have sense enough to know Benito might
not last out the night. But it was plain they were now pushed for time.
They had been on the way for a while before Drew noticed that Lutterfield
was not with them. His reappearance was far more dramatic than his going.
A horse clattered up from behind at a pace not in keeping with the rough
footing, and the rider drew level with Kitchell.
"Soldiers comin’, Colonel. Got ’em a couple o’ them Pima Scouts sniffin’
th’ trail an’ some o’ Rennie’s men with ’em, too!"
"It ain’t true!" Shannon’s protest was loud.
"I seed em—bright an’ clear—mos’ up to where we stopped last. Iffen you
wants to sit ’round waitin’ for ’em, do it! I’m clearin’ out—ain’t nobody
can say Amos Lutterfield was here."
"Nobody but us," Shannon said coldly.
"Lutterfield!"
Even Drew’s head came around at that. The moonlight was silver bright on
the barrel of the Colt in Kitchell’s grasp. "Sergeant, suppose you take
precautions to insure the continued company of this man. I don’t intend,
Lutterfield, to let you curry favor by pointing out our trail to the army.
I’d answer your proposed desertion as it deserves—with a bullet—but a body
on our trail would provide an excellent signpost for any pursuers."
The rope which had been coiled on Wayne’s saddle swung out in a perfect
loop and tightened about Lutterfield, pinning his arms to his sides. His
protests and roars of anger went unheeded and he rode on as much a
prisoner as Drew.
"Move out." Kitchell motioned with the Colt. "Those two peaks
ahead—according to Benito, the cut we want is between them. Across that
we’re free. The army can’t follow us into Mexico."
But Kitchell still kept to a cautious pace. The risk of losing a mount was
one he dared not run. Drew debated the idea of booting his own horse from
their line of march and trying to ride for it. He need only hide out and
wait for the troopers to pick him up. If he had had hands free and been
able to move in the saddle to dodge bullets, he might have tried it.
The night wore on and Drew was driven to admiring the outlaws’ nerve.
Kitchell did not hurry; in fact he followed the old cavalry custom of
resting mounts at regular intervals, seeing that each of the weary horses
had nostrils and mouth wiped out with a dampened cloth. At the third halt
he allowed them a drink of water before a smaller portion was given the
men. Whatever else the outlaw might be, he was an experienced field
commander.
They had the peaks looming above them when Benito gave a gurgling gasp and
stiffened, tall in the saddle, before he looped into a limp, dangling
bundle of a man. Kitchell called a halt. He dismounted to examine the
Mexican before he beckoned to Wayne.
"He’s dead. We’ll need his horse. Put him down behind those rocks over
there, Sergeant."
"You know where we’re goin’, suh?" Shannon asked.
"Enough to get us across the border. We can take cover there, make some
other arrangements. Benito’s _patrón_ would not welcome us with empty
pockets. Hurry, Sergeant!"
"I only got two hands, suh." Wayne had freed the body of the Mexican but
was having trouble dragging it into the appointed hiding place.
"You help him, Shannon. We have no time to waste."
"What about him?" Shannon’s thumb indicated Drew.
"I don’t see how he can get away. Hurry up!"
Johnny dismounted with visible reluctance, but not before he blasted
Drew’s hopes by looping the reins of the captive’s horse around his own
saddle horn. And in addition Kitchell stood there with drawn gun. They had
disposed of the body and Johnny was back when a sudden command boomed out
of the air.
"Freeze!"
Shannon leaped, putting his horse between him and the open. He had the
reins of Drew’s mount in his hand. Kitchell went into a half crouch, and
was startled into snapping a shot in the general direction of the voice.
Drew sat statue still. It was only too easy in this tricky light, bright
though the moon was, to seem one of the men those ahead were hunting. He
had no desire to stop a bullet now. But Johnny had ideas of his own. Under
his direction Drew’s horse broke to the left. There were shots and Drew
flattened himself as best he could on the saddle horn, but not before he
saw Kitchell spin around in a crazy dance and fall.
"All right, all right!" Shannon’s voice was broken, ragged, almost as if
he were sobbing. "You ain’t got me yet—not by a sight, you ain’t!" A knife
flashed, cutting the ties which kept Drew’s left boot to the stirrup. The
Kentuckian was dragged down and held while the knife sliced again. Two
more shots—then silence. Drew lay face to earth. The fall from the saddle
had brought him down on his injured side, and he was in too great pain to
take much interest in his surroundings.
Then he was dragged, pulled over on his back.
"I got Drew Rennie here." The call was one of desperation. "Yeah, hear
that? Drew Rennie—th’ Old Man’s son.... I read them letters he had—it’s
th’ truth! You come t’ take me an’ he gits a knife clean across his
throat. I want me a hoss, water, an’ an open road south. Do I git ’em—or
does Mister High an’ Mighty Rennie git him a son who ain’t speakin’ no
more?"
"Johnny? Is that you, Johnny?"
"It sure is! Me, Johnny Shannon! An’ I’m ridin’ outta here free’n clear or
else I’ll do what I said. I mean that, Rennie! I surely do mean it. You
lose me an’ you git your real son—good bargain, ain’t it?"
"You won’t ride free for long, Johnny. You know that."
"I can have me a pretty good try, Rennie. This here’s my country an’ I
know it well—better’n any but your men. Give me your word an’ I’ll go."
Drew tried to fight back the darkness which was closing in, a dark
stronger than mere night shadows.
"Give him what he wants." The words echoed hollowly.
Shannon drew a deep breath. He laughed softly. And Drew made a great
effort. He could see the bulk of the other’s body poised between him and
an opening between the rocks which must give on the pocket in which the
outlaws had been surprised. Johnny was set like a runner ready on the
mark.
The Kentuckian could hear the scrape of horses’ hoofs on stone. They must
be bringing out a mount, keeping Hunt’s part of the bargain. Only, Drew
suddenly knew, Johnny was going to keep him. He saw the gun hand shift
against the rock—Johnny was taking aim into the pocket. Why? By trusting
to Rennie’s word he would have a slim chance, so why spoil it by some
treachery?
"All right, Johnny, it’s ready for you."
"Now you git them hands up, Rennie. Sorta guessed you’d come yourself. I’m
gittin’ out, all right. Do I take you along there ain’t goin’ to be no
trailin’, none ’tall—do they want _Don_ Cazar to keep on breathing
regular. Git them hands up, high!"
With all the force he could summon Drew kicked at Johnny’s crouching body.
Shannon cried out—there was a shot. Then Johnny cried again, this time
with a choke cutting off the word as he arched convulsively against the
boulder. In the half light the arrow projecting from between his shoulder
blades stood out with unnatural clarity.
Arrow? Drew’s wits worked slowly. The arrow must have come from one of the
Pimas—Rennie had been covered, after all. So he had not believed too much
in Johnny’s promises....
"You there, kid?" Someone came through the rock gap. "Hey—he’s here all
right, but he’s hurt!" Nye’s grasp on him brought the pain in Drew’s side
to an agony he could no longer stand. He was crushed down into darkness.
"Ribs are cracked, not broken—that’s something to be thankful for. All
right, you can let him down now. Give me that pad and some water; I want
to see how much damage there is here."
Drew tried to turn his head away from the touch on his swollen cheek and
jaw, but he was held steady to endure it.
"Best we can do for the present. You can leave the rest to me, Nye."
Drew opened his eyes. There was a fire near-by, but the flickering of the
flames concealed more than they revealed of the face above him. He found
the words to say rather than ask:
"You knew ... before Johnny told ... you knew...."
"Teodoro told me—yesterday."
"I didn’t lie. Johnny took the papers."
"He admitted it at the last. But why, why didn’t you come to me?"
Put muddled feelings into words, attempt to explain what he did not fully
understand himself? It was hard even to try, but you always faced up to
the hard things.
"Wanted to know ... if it was right ... for both of us ... had to know
that."
"If you’d be welcome—that it? Well, what did you decide?"
What had he decided hours, days ago?
"Too late...." But somehow that came out differently than he intended, as
a question rather than a statement.
"No." The answer was uttered flatly, in a voice you did not argue with.
"Suppose we begin all over again. You willing to try?"
"Better say—are _you_, suh?" Drew had whirling memories of all that had
gone wrong since he had tried things his way. Then he saw a smile on his
father’s face, bringing him in—in where? To what? Suddenly he was eager to
find out.
"Took the long way around to get home, didn’t you?" Hunt Rennie asked
softly. "I think we can make it worth the effort. Now, suppose you try
some sleep—you’ve a pair of cracked ribs which’ll have to be favored for a
while. I think you’ve been too knocked about lately to make good sense.
There’ll be plenty of time."
Plenty of time.... Drew blinked. "Yes, suh." Obediently he shut his eyes.
A blanket was pulled up, tucked in about him. For a moment a warm hand
rested protectingly on his shoulder. And that reassuring pressure carried
over with him into sleep, as if what he had long sought without
recognizing was his, never to be lost again.