by Andre Norton
_For_ HENDRY PEART _and_ CARROLL COLLINS _who share my interest in "The West."_
Bookcover Illustration]
_Jacket painting by Peter Burchard_
REBEL SPURS
ANDRE NORTON
(front dusk jacket)
In 1866, only men uprooted by war had reason to ride into Tubacca,Arizona, a nondescript town as shattered and anonymous as the veteransdrifting through it. So when Drew Rennie, newly discharged from Forrest'sConfederate scouts, arrived leading everything he owned behind him--histhoroughbred stud Shiloh, a mare about to foal, and a mule--he knew hisbusiness would not be questioned. To anyone in Tubacca there could be onlyone extraordinary thing about Drew, and that he could not reveal: hisname, Rennie.
Drew had come west from Kentucky to find a father he had thought deaduntil the year before. Kinship with a man like Hunt Rennie, however--thelegendary Don Cazar, owner of a matchless range and prize stallions--wasnot a claim to be made quickly or lightly. Posing as Drew Kirby the youngveteran contrived to get himself and his friend Anse hired as corral handsat Rennie's Range, but he was hardly prepared for the suspicion and dangerwhich stood between him and his father. As hotheaded as his father, Drewwas ready to move on to California--until the day all proof of his Renniename was stolen from him, and his unwarranted arrest for horse-thievingbrought on the accusations of the one man whose trust he needed.
Andre Norton's _Ride Proud, Rebel!_ dramatically portrayed the last yearof the Confederacy, when brave men like Drew Rennie met defeat with honor.In this sequel, Drew's struggle to establish his identity and begin lifeanew in a raw, unsettled land reflects the courage of thousands ofrootless men set adrift by the Civil War.
BY ANDRE NORTON
The Defiant Agents Ride Proud, Rebel! Storm Over Warlock Galactic Derelict The Time Traders Star Born Yankee Privateer The Stars Are Ours!
EDITED BY ANDRE NORTON
Space Pioneers Space Service
1
Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land.Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. Thecrumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid inthe torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red andyellow, violet--colors he had hardly been aware existed back in the coolgreen, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky.
So this was Tubacca! The rider shifted his weight in the saddle and gazedabout him with watchful interest. Back in '59 this had been a flourishingtown, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest. The mines in thehills behind producing wealth, the fact that it was a watering place ontwo cross-country routes--the one from Tucson down into Sonora of OldMexico, the other into California--had all fed its growth.
Then the war.... The withdrawal of the army, the invasion of Sibley'sConfederate forces which had reached this far in the persons of Howard'sArizona Rangers--and most of all the raiding, vicious, deadly, andcontinual, by Apaches and outlaws--had blasted Tubacca. Now, in the fall of1866, it was a third of what it had been, with a ragged fringe ofdilapidated adobes crumbling back into the soil. Only this heart core wasstill alive in the dusk.
Smell, a myriad of smells, some to tickle a flat stomach, others towrinkle the nose. Under the rider the big stud moved, tossed his head,drawing the young man's attention from the town back to his own immediateconcerns. The animal he rode, the two he led were, at first glance, farmore noticeable than the dusty rider himself.
His saddle was cinched about the barrel of a big gray colt, one that couldnot have been more than five years old but showed enough power andbreeding to attract attention in any horse-conscious community. Here was athoroughbred of the same blood which had pounded race tracks in Virginiaand in Kentucky to best all comers. Even now, after weeks on the trail,with a day's burden of alkali dust grimed into his coat, the stud was abeautiful thing. And his match was the mare on the lead rope, plainly alady of family, perhaps of the same line, since her coat was also silver.She crowded closer, nickered plaintively.
She was answered by an anxious bray from the fourth member of the party.The mule bearing the trail pack was in ludicrous contrast to his ownaristocratic companions. His long head, with one entirely limp andflopping ear, was grotesquely ugly, the carcass beneath the pack a bonerack, all sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master couldhave proven, were deceiving.
"Soooo--" The rider's voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but itwas tuned to the soothing croon of a practiced horse trainer. "Sooo--lady,just a little farther now, girl...."
From the one-story building on the rider's right a man emerged. He pausedto light a long Mexican cigarillo, and as he held the match to let thesulfur burn away, his eyes fell upon the stallion. A casual interesttightened into open appreciation as he stepped from under theporch-overhang into the street.
"That is some horse, sir." His voice was that of an educated gentleman.The lantern at the end of the porch picked out the fine ruffled linen ofhis shirt, a vest with a painted design of fighting cocks, and the wink ofgold buttons. The rather extravagant color of his clothing matched wellwith the town.
"I think so." The answer was short and yet not discourteous.
Again the mare voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to thegentleman. "There is a livery stable here, suh?" Unconsciously he revertedin turn to the rather formal speech pattern of another place and time.
The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from stallion tomare. "Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe Kells owns it. He's atolerable vet, too. She's near her time, ain't she?"
"Yes." The rider raised one finger to the straight wide brim of hislow-crowned black hat. He was already turning his mount when the townsmanadded:
"No hotel here, stranger. But the Four Jacks serves a pretty good meal andkeeps a couple of beds for overnighters. You're welcome back when you'vesettled the little lady. She Virginia stock?"
"Kentucky," the rider answered, and then his lips tightened into acompressed line. Was it a mistake to admit even that much? He would haveto watch every word he said in this town. He tugged gently at the leadrope and walked Shiloh ahead at a pace which did not urge Shadow to anygreat effort. The mule, Croaker, fell in behind her so that they werestrung out in the familiar pattern which had been theirs clear from Texas.
Minutes later her owner was rubbing down the fretful Shadow, murmuring thesoothing words to quiet her. The lean, gray-haired man who had usheredthem into the stable stood eyeing the mare's distended sides.
"I'd say, young fellow, you didn't git her here a mite too soon, no,siree. She's due right quick. Carryin' a blood foal, I'm thinkin'--"
"Yes. How soon? Tonight?"
Tobe Kells made a quick examination. The mare, after a first nervousstart, stood easy under his sure and gentle hands. "Late, maybe. Firstfoal?"
"Yes." Her owner hesitated and then added, "You give me a hand with her?"
"You bet, son. She's a pretty thing, an' she's been a far piece, I'd say.Now you looky here, boy--you sure look like you could take some curryin'an' corn fodder under your belt too. You git over to th' Four Jacks.Topham's got him a Chinee cookin' there who serves up th' best danged grubin this here town. Fill up your belly an' take some ease. Then if we dohave this little lady gittin' us up tonight, you'll be ready for it. I'llsee t' th' stud an' th' mule. That colt's not a wild one." Kells surveyedShiloh knowingly. "No, I seed he was gentle-trained when you come in." Heran his hand down Shiloh's shoulder, touched the brand. "Spur R? Thatain't no outfit I heard tell of before."
"From Eastern ... Texas--" That much was true. All three animals had beengiven the brand in the small Texas town where the wagon train hadassembled. And pe
rhaps this was the time when he should begin building upthe background one Drew Kirby must present to Tubacca, Arizona Territory."All right, I'll go eat." He picked up his saddlebags. "You'll call meif----"
"Sure, son. Say, I don't rightly know your name...."
"Drew Kirby."
"Wal, sure, Kirby, Tobe Kells is a man o' his word. Iffen there's anyreason to think you'll be needed, I'll send Callie along for you. Callie!"
At Kells' hail a boy swung down the loft ladder. He was wiry thin, with athick mop of sun-bleached hair and a flashing grin. At the sight of Shilohand Shadow he whistled.
"Now ain't they th' purtiest things?" he inquired of the stable at large."'Bout th' best stock we've had here since th' last time _Don_ Cazarbrought in a couple o' hissen. Where'll I put your plunder, mister?" Hewas already loosing Croaker's pack. "You be stayin' over to th' Jacks?"
Drew glanced up at the haymow from which Callie had just descended. "Anyreason why I can't bunk up there?" he asked Kells.
"None 'tall, Kirby, none 'tall. Know you want to be handy like. Stow thatthere gear up above, Callie, an' don't you drop nothin'. Rest yourselfeasy, son. These here hosses is goin' to be treated jus' like th' goodstuff they is."
"Croaker, also." Drew stopped by the mule, patted the long nose, gave aflip to the limp ear. "He's good stuff, too--served in the cavalry...."
Kells studied the young man by the mule. Cavalry saddle on the stud, twoColt pistols belted high and butt forward, and that military cord on hishat--army boots, too. The liveryman knew the signs. This was not the firstveteran to drift into Tubacca; he wouldn't be the last either. Seems likehalf of both them armies back east didn't want to go home an' sit downpeaceful like now that they was through wi' shootin' at each other. No,siree, a right big herd o' 'em was trailin' out here. An' he thought hecould put name to the color of coat this young'un had had on his back,too. Only askin' more than a man volunteered to tell, that warn't neithermanners nor wise.
"He gits th' best, too, Kirby." Kells shifted a well-chewed tobacco cudfrom one cheek to the other.
He could trust Kells, Drew thought. A little of his concern over Shadoweased. He shouldered the saddlebags and made his way back down the alley,beginning to see the merit in the liveryman's suggestions. Food--and abath! What he wouldn't give for a bath! Hay to sleep on was fine; he hadhad far worse beds during the past four years. But a hot bath to befollowed by a meal which was not the jerky, corn meal, bitter coffee oftrail cooking! His pace quickened into a trot but slackened again as heneared the Four Jacks and remembered all the precautions he must take inTubacca.
In the big room of the cantina oil lamps made yellow pools of light. Theman in the painted vest was seated at a table laying out cards in acomplicated pattern of a solitaire game. And at one side a round-facedMexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across oneplump knee, now and then plucking absent-mindedly at a single string as hestared raptly into space. A third man stood behind the bar polishing thickglasses.
"Greetings!" As Drew stood blinking just within the doorway the cardplayer rose. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, a little too thin for hisheight. Deep lines in his clean-shaven face bracketed his wide mouth. Hiscurly hair was a silvery blond, and he had dark, deeply set eyes. "I'mReese Topham, owner of this oasis," he introduced himself.
"Drew Kirby." He must remember that always--he was Drew Kirby, a Texanschooled with kinfolk in Kentucky, who served in the war under Forrest andwas now drifting west, as were countless other rootless Confederateveterans. Actually the story was close enough to the truth. And he had hadmonths on the trail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, then on to Tucson, tostudy up on any small invented details. He was Drew Kirby, Texan, not DrewRennie of Red Springs, Kentucky.
"For a man just off the trail, Kirby, the Four Jacks does have a few ofthe delights of civilization. A bath...." One of Topham's dark eyebrows,so in contrast to his silvery hair, slid up inquiringly, and he grinned atDrew's involuntary but emphatic nod. "One of nature's gifts to our faircity is the hot spring. Hamilcar!" His hand met table top in a sharp slap.The Mexican jerked fully awake and looked around. From the back of thecantina emerged a middle-aged Negro.
"Yes, Mistuh Reese, suh?"
"Customer for you, Hamilcar. I would judge he wants the full treatment.This, Mister Kirby, is the best barber, valet, and general aid to comfortin town, the sultan of our bath. Hamilcar, Mister Kirby would like toremove the layers of dust he has managed to pick up. Good luck to youboth!"
Drew found himself laughing as he followed Hamilcar to the rear of thebuilding.
Topham had reason to be proud of his bath, Drew admitted some time later.A natural hot spring might be the base of the luxury, but man's labor hadpiped the water into stone-slab tubs and provided soap and towels. To sitand soak was a delight he had forgotten. He shampooed his unkempt headvigorously and allowed himself to forget all worries, wallowing in thesheer joy of being really clean again.
Hamilcar had produced a clean shirt and drawers from the saddlebags, evenmanaging to work up a shadow of shine on the scuffed cavalry boots, andhad beat the worst of the trail dust from the rest of the traveler'sclothing. Drew had re-dressed except for his gun belt when he heard avoice call from the next cubicle.
"Ham--Ham! You git yourself in here, 'fore I skin that black hide--"
"Johnny!" Topham's voice cut through the other's thickened slur. "You soakthat rot-gut out of you, and mind your tongue while you do it!"
"Sure, sure, Reese--" The voice was pitched lower this time, but to Drewthe tone was more mocking than conciliatory. Drunk or sober, that strangerdid not hold very kindly thoughts of Topham. But that was none of theKentuckian's business.
"Yore hat, suh." Hamilcar brought in the well-brushed headgear, much morerespectable looking than it had been an hour ago. The cord on itglistened. Army issue--brave gold bullion--made for a general's wearing.Drew straightened it, remembering....
Sergeant Rennie of the Scouts, in from an independent foray intoenemy-held Tennessee, reporting to the Old Man himself--General BedfordForrest. And Forrest saying:
"We don't give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just begranted a birthday present without any one gittin' too excited about howmilitary that is." Then he had jerked the cord off his own hat and givenit to Drew. It was something big to remember when you were only nineteenand had been soldiering three years, three years with a dogged army thatrefused to be beaten. That hat cord, the spurs on his boots, they were allhe had brought home from war--save a tough body and a mind he hoped was ashard.
"Mighty pretty hat trimmin', that, suh," Hamilcar admired.
"Mighty big man wore it once." Drew was still half in the past. "What do Iowe you more'n the thanks of a mighty tired man you've turned out brandnew again?" He smiled and was suddenly all boy.
"Foah bits, suh. An' it was a pleasure to do fo' a gentleman. It trulywas. Come agin, suh--come, agin!"
Drew went down the corridor, his spurs answering with a chiming ring eachtime his heels met planking. Worn at Chapultepec by a Mexican officer,they had been claimed as spoils of war in '47 by a Texas Ranger. And in'61 the Ranger's son, Anson Kirby, had jingled off in them to another war.Then Kirby had disappeared during that last scout in Tennessee, vanishinginto nowhere when he fell wounded from the saddle, smashing into abushwhackers' hideout.
On a Sunday in May of '65, back in Gainesville, when Forrest's men hadfinally accepted surrender and the deadness of defeat, a Union trooper hadworn those spurs into church. And Boyd Barrett had sold his horse the sameday to buy back those silver bits because he knew what they meant to hiscousin Drew. Now here Drew was, half the continent away from Gainesvilleand Tennessee, wearing Anse's spurs and half of Anse's name--to find afather he had not known was still alive, until last year.
The Kentuckian was sure of only one thing right now, he was not going toenter a town or a stretch of country where Hunt Rennie was _the_ big man,and claim to be Rennie's unknown son. Maybe later
he could come to adecision about his action. But first he wanted to be sure. There mightwell be no place for a Drew Rennie in Hunt Rennie's present life. Theywere total strangers and perhaps it must be left that way.
There was no reason for him to claim the kinship. He was independent. DrewKirby had a mule and two good horses, maybe three by tomorrow. AuntMarianna had insisted that he accept part of the Mattock estate, eventhough his Kentucky grandfather had left him penniless. He'd made hischoice without hesitation: the colt Shiloh, the mare Shadow, and she bredto Storm Cloud for what should be a prize foal. His aunt had made him takemore--gold in his money belt, enough to give him a start in the west. Hewas his own man, not Rennie's son, unless he chose....
Two more lamps had been lighted in the cantina. Drew sat down at a table.There was a swish of full skirts, and he looked up at a girl. She smiledas if she liked what she saw of this brown-faced stranger with quiet,disciplined features and eyes older than his years.
"You like, _senor_ ... tequila ... whiskee ... food?"
"Food, _senorita_. You see a most hungry man."
She laughed and then frowned anxiously. "Ah, but, _senor_, this is a timewhen the cupboard is, as you would say, bare! When the wagons come--thenwhat a difference! Now, tortillas, frijoles, maybe some fruit ... sweetfor the tongue, like wine in the throat. Perhaps an egg--"
"To me that is a feast." Drew fell into the formal speech which seemednatural here. "You see one who has done his own trail cooking too long."
"Ah--_el pobrete_--poor man! Surely there will be an egg!" She was gone andDrew began covertly to study the other men in the room.
In any western town the cantina, or saloon, was the meeting place formasculine society. Even if Hunt Rennie did not appear bodily in the FourJacks tonight, Drew could pick up information about his father merely bykeeping open ears. As far away as Santa Fe he had heard of Rennie's Rangeand _Don_ Cazar (the name the Mexicans had given its owner, Hunt Rennie).
Escaped from a Mexican prison in 1847, believing his wife and the son hehad never seen to be dead, Hunt Rennie had gone west. In contrast to thetragedy of his personal life, whatever Rennie had turned his hand to inthe new territory had prospered. A prospector he had grub-staked, foundthe Oro Cruz, one of the richest mines in the Tubacca hills. Rennie ownedtwo freighting lines, one carrying goods to California, the other up fromSonora. And his headquarters in the fertile Santa Cruz Valley was a ranchwhich was also a fort, a fort even the Apaches avoided after they hadsuffered two overwhelming defeats there.
That was Rennie's Range--cultivated fields, fruit orchards, _manadas_ offine horses. _Don_ Cazar supplied Tucson and the army posts withvegetables and superb hams. He had organized a matchless company of PimaIndian Scouts after the army pulled out in '61, had fought Apaches, buthad sided with neither Union nor Confederate forces. During the war yearshe had more or less withdrawn within the borders of the Range, offeringrefuge to settlers and miners fleeing Indian attacks. _Don_ Cazar was alegend now, and a man did not quickly claim kinship with a legend.
"Want a room, Kirby?" Topham paused beside his table.
"No. I have to stay close to the mare."
"Yes. I can understand that. Kells is good with horses, so you needn'tworry. Ever raced that colt of yours?"
"Not officially." Drew smiled. There was that lieutenant with the supplywagons. The man hadn't talked so loudly about Johnny Rebs after Shilohshowed his heels to the roan the soldiers had bragged up.
"This is a sporting town when the wagons come in, and they're duetomorrow. Johnny Shannon just rode in to report. Might be some racing. Youaim to stay on in Tubacca?"
"Have to until Shadow can trail again. How's the prospect for a job?"
"With cattle--horses--teaming?"
"Horses, I guess."
"Well, _Don_ Cazar--Rennie--runs the best _manadas_. You might hit him forwork. He'll be riding in to meet the wagons. Carmencita, did you bring allthat was left of the supplies?" Topham's quizzical eyebrows lifted ingreeting to the waitress's loaded tray. "I'd say, young man, that you arefacing a full-time job now, getting all that inside of you."
Drew ate steadily, consuming eggs and beans, tortillas, and fruit. Tophamjoined three men at the next table, substantial town citizens, Drewjudged. The owner of the cantina raised his glass.
"Gentlemen, I give you another successful trading trip!"
"Saw Johnny ride in," one of the men returned. "Kid seems to be settlin'down, ain't he? That ought to be good news for Rennie."
"One believes in reformations when they are proven by time, _Senor_Cahill," the man wearing rich but somber Spanish clothing replied.
"It sure must go hard with a man to have his son turn out a wild one,"commented the third.
Drew's cup was at his lips, but he did not drink. Whose son? Rennie's?
"No son by blood, that much comfort _Don_ Cazar has. But foster ties arealso strong. And the boy is still very young--"
"A rattler with only one button on the tail carries as much poison as aten-button one. Rennie ought to cut losses and give that kid the boot. Theway he's going he could involve Hunt in a real mess," Cahill said.
"You are _Don_ Cazar's good friend, _Don_ Reese, his _compadre_ of manyyears. Can you not do something?"
"_Don_ Lorenzo, all men have blind spots. And Johnny Shannon is Rennie's.Bob Shannon helped free Hunt out of Mex prison in the war and was killeddoing it. Soon as Hunt set up here he sent for the boy and tried to givehim a father."
"It is a great pity he has no child of his own blood. I have seen himstand here in Tubacca giving toys and candy to the little ones. Yet he hasonly this wild one under his roof, and perhaps that Juanito will break hisheart in the end...."
Drew put down his cup. It was very hard not to turn and ask questions.Dropping some coins on the table, he rose and started back to the stable,to the world of Shiloh and Shadow where he was unable to betray DrewRennie. But there was so much Drew Kirby must learn--and soon!