The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “You planning a trip, Mister Kirby?” Stein peered at him over a pair of old-fashioned, steel-bowed spectacles which perched on his sharp parrot’s beak of a nose.

  “No. My cousin just rode in; he lost his gear on the road and needs a new outfit complete.”

  Stein nodded, patted smooth the top shirt on a growing pile. “Anything else?”

  “Add those up. I’ll look around.” Drew paused to glance into the single small, glass-fronted case which was Stein’s claim to fame in the surrounding territory. The exotic wares on display were a strange mixture: a few pieces of jewelry, heavy Spanish things which might be a century or more old, several six-guns—one with an ornate ivory handle.… Drew stopped and pulled a finger across the dusty surface of the glass case. Spurs—silver spurs—not quite so elaborate as those he now wore, but of the same general workmanship.

  “I’d like to look at those spurs.”

  Stein unlocked the case and took them out. As Drew unstrapped those he wore and fitted the new pair to his boots, a brown, calf-bound book thudded to the floor. Books—here in Stein’s?

  Weighing the volume in his hand, the Kentuckian straightened up. There were two more books lying on the top of the case. The leather bindings were scuffed and one was scored clear across the back, yet they had been handsome, undoubtedly treasured. Drew turned them up to read the scrolled gold titles on their spines.

  “History of the Conquest of Mexico, The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo…Where’d these come from, Mister Stein?” Drew’s curiosity was aroused.

  “That is a story almost as fanciful as the ones inside them.” Stein rested his bony elbows on the counter as he talked. “Would you believe, Mister Kirby, these were brought to me by Amos Lutterfield?”

  “Lutterfield? Who’s he?”

  “I forget, you have not been in Tubacca long. Amos Lutterfield—he is what one might term a character, a strange one. He goes out into the wilds alone, seeking always the gold.”

  “In Apache country?” Drew demanded.

  “The Apaches, they do not touch a man they believe insane, and Amos has many peculiarities: peculiarities of dress, of speech, of action. He roams undisturbed, sometimes coming in with relics from the old cliff houses to trade for supplies. Last month he told me a story of a cave where he found a trunk. Where it had come from or why it was hidden he did not know, but these books were in it. Like some men who have no formal education, Amos is highly respectful of the printed word. He thought the books of great value and so brought them here.”

  Drew opened the top volume. Back home books as well bound as these would have carried a personal bookplate or at least the written name of the owner, but the fly leaf was bare. They had the look of well-read, cherished volumes but no mark of possession.

  “You have perhaps read these?” Stein asked.

  Drew picked up The Three Musketeers. “Not likely to forget this one,” he said, grinning. “Earned me a good ten with the cane when I read it instead of dealing faithfully with Caesar’s campaigns in Gaul. I did get to finish it before I was caught out.” The pages separated stiffly under his exploring fingers as if the volume had not been opened for a long time. He did not notice that Stein was eyeing him with new appraisal.

  “These for sale?”

  “In Stein’s everything is for sale.” The storekeeper named a price, and Drew bargained. When he left, the three books reposed on the top of his armload of clothing, and a half hour later he dropped them down on a cantina table. Anse came from the bathhouse and sat down in the opposite chair. His booted foot moved, but now rowel points flashed in the sun. The Texan regarded the Mexican spurs joyfully, stooped to jingle them with his finger tip.

  “Can’t believe it…how they came back to you,” he marveled. “One of them Yankees musta took ’em off me, thinkin’ I was cashin’ in m’ chips. Sure feels good to git ’em back on my heels agin, sorta like they was m’ luck. Pa, he set a right lot by them spurs. Gave ’em to me when I gentle broke a wild one none o’ th’ other boys could back. Was I turkey-cock proud th’ first day I rode into town with ’em playin’ pretty tunes, even though I strapped ’em on over boots as was only three pieces of leather hangin’ to each other restless like. Yeah, Pa, he got ’em in the Mexican War, an’ me, I wore ’em mostly through this past ruckus. They’s sure seen a lotta history bein’ made by men climbin’ up an’ down from saddles!”

  “Let’s hope…no more wars.” Drew set the three books in a pile and regarded them attentively. Stein’s story of their origin—out of a trunk hidden in a desert cave—was most intriguing. What else had been in that trunk?

  “Anse,” he asked, “why would anyone hide a trunk in a cave?” “Might depend on what was in it,” the Texan replied promptly.

  “Well, these were—”

  Anse took up the top book. His finger traced each word as he read. “The Three Mus—Musketeers. Whatever kinda critter is that?”

  “A soldier. They used to have them over in France a long time ago.”

  “Army manual, eh? Maybe so the trunk was an army cache—”

  Drew shook his head. “No, this is just a story. A good one with lots of prime fightin’ in it. This one’s a story, too. I’ve heard about it…never got a chance to read it though.” He set The Count of Monte Cristo upright on the table. Anse took the third volume.

  “…Con—Conquest of Mexico. Hey, conquest means winnin’ th’ country, don’t it? This about the Mex War which our pa’s fought?” He flicked open the pages eagerly.

  “No, the earlier one—when the Spanish came in under Cortés and broke up the Aztec empire…back in the 1500’s.”

  “Kinda stiff readin’…looks interestin’ though.” Anse gave his verdict. “We had us two books. Pa learned us to read outta them. One was th’ Bible Ma brought long when she was married. T’other—that sure was kinda queer how we got that. Pa was in th’ Rangers, an’ he had this run-in with some Comanches—” Anse’s eyes were suddenly bleak, and Drew remembered the few stark sentences the Texan had once spoken to explain his reason for being in the army—a return to a frontier ranch to find nothing left, nothing he wanted to remember, after the Comanches had swept across the countryside.

  “Well,” Anse broke that short pause, “Pa shot him one big buck as was ridin’ straight into th’ Ranger line, wantin’ to count one o’ them coups by whangin’ some white man personal with his lance, or some such foolishness. This buck had him a war shield an’ Pa picked it up when all th’ smoke blew away. What’d’ you think that there shield was packed with? Well, this one had a book all tore apart an’ stuffed in between th’ front an’ back layers of hide. Th’ boys in th’ company, they got right interested in sortin’ out all them pages an’ puttin’ ’em in order agin, kinda like a game, Pa said. Pa, he never had much schoolin’, but he could read good an’ write an’ figger. He sure liked to read, so he claimed that there book when it was all tied up together agin—’cause he shot th’ buck as was carryin’ th’ shield. So he made a buckskin case and kept all th’ pages together. That was ’bout soldiers of th’ old time, too—parts of it. Romans they was called. Wonder now—did it maybe go back into a shield agin afterward?” He gazed beyond Drew’s shoulder into the world outside the cantina door.

  “Why would anyone want to store books in a trunk in a cave?” Drew changed the subject quickly to break that unseeing stare. He outlined what Stein had told him, and Anse’s attention was all his again.

  “Might catch up with this Lutterfield an’ ask a few questions—”

  “Stein couldn’t get anythin’ out of him. Guess the old man is a little addled. Maybe someone was storin’ stuff, hopin’ to come back when the war was over. Anyway, there’s no way to identify the owner or owners—”

  Anse picked up The Three Musketeers. “You say this is good—’bout fightin’ an’ such?”

  Drew nodded. “Try it…”

  “Somethin’ like this is good t’ have. A hombre gits tired readin’ l
abels on cans. I’d like to see how much Pa pushed into m’ thick head. Good coverin’ this book has. Wouldn’t you say as th’ hombre that had it was kinda heavy in th’ pocket?”

  “Yes. In fact, these were bound to order.”

  “How can you tell that?”

  “These two might have come bound alike.” Drew pointed to the book Anse held and The Count of Monte Cristo. “They were written by the same author and could have been part of a matched set. But this one is on a totally different subject and by another writer—Prescott. Yet it is uniformly bound to match the others. I’d say they came from the personal library of a man able to indulge himself in pretty expensive tastes.”

  “Makes you think,” Anse agreed. “Wonder what else was in that trunk.”

  “Looky what we’ve got us here! Regular li’l schoolhouse right in this cantina!”

  The table moved an inch or so as a thick body brought up with a rush against it. A hand, matted with sun-bleached hair, made a grab for the book Drew had just laid down. Before the startled Kentuckian could pull it back from that grasp, hand and book were gone, and the trooper who had taken it was reeling back to the bar, waving the trophy over his head.

  “Schoolhouse…right here…” he mouthed. “Sittin’ there…two li’l boys, studyin’ their lessons. Now, ain’t that somethin’?”

  A chair went over with a crash. Anse was on his feet, had taken two steps in the direction of the soldier. Drew jumped after him, trying to assess the situation even as his hand closed restrainingly on the Texan’s shoulder.

  There were four troopers. Wide grins on the faces of the three still against the bar suggested they were ready to back their companion in any form of horseplay he intended to try.

  “Sam, one o’ them thar schoolboys is breathin’ down yore neck kinda hot like,” the tallest of the bar row observed.

  Anse jerked against Drew’s hold. There was no expression on his thin face, but the old saber scar from lip to eye on his left cheek was suddenly twice as noticeable.

  Sam reached up against the bar, squirmed around, the book still in his hand.

  “Wal, now, sonny, you ain’t really wantin’ this here book back? Never knowed any li’l boy what warn’t glad to see th’ last o’ a book. Better git away from a real man ’fore you gits yore backside warmed. That’s what th’ teacher does to smarty kids, ain’t it?”

  “You’d better watch out, Sam.” Again the tall man cut in. Sam was still grinning, but there was a curve of lip which was far from any real humor, even that provoked by the practical jokes of a barracks bully. “One of them kids had been sayin’ as how he rode with Forrest, regular li’l red-hot Reb, he is. Stomp all over us…that’s what you Rebs has been promisin’ to do, ain’t it? Gonna stomp all over any Blue Bellies as comes into this town? Well, we ain’t bein’ booted—not easy—an’ not by you, Reb!”

  A second, perhaps more—that much warning Drew had before the speaker lurched from the bar straight for him. What had happened, how this had sprung up out of nothing, the Kentuckian could not understand. But he knew well that he was under an attack delivered with a purpose, and with all the dirty tricks of a no-rules, back-alley fighter.

  CHAPTER 8

  Only once before, when some river toughs had ganged up on the scouts, had Drew had to use fists to beat his way out of an argument. But that had been a round dance at Court House Day compared to this. Within moments the Kentuckian knew that he was no match for the trooper, that he would be lucky if he could get out of this unmaimed. The fellow knew every dirty trick and was eager to use them all. Drew tried only to keep on his feet and out of the other’s grip. Once down, he knew he would have no chance at all.

  Then he was jerked back, off balance, staggering on to bring up against the wall. He caught at the solid backing and somehow remained upright, seeing hazily through one eye. The other was puffing closed, and his lip was torn, a trickle of blood rising there to drip down his chin. He put both hands to his middle where more than one of the pile-driver knocks had landed, and tried to understand what was happening.

  Sergeant Muller…that was Muller standing over the man on the floor. And Nye…Reese Topham…suddenly the cantina was very well populated. Drew turned his head cautiously to see on his blind side. Anse was down! The Kentuckian stood away from the wall, lurched out to fall to his knees. He rolled the Texan over on his back. Anse’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked up dazedly. There was an angry red mark on his chin just an inch or so away from the point of his jaw.

  “Now, just what devil’s business is goin’ on here?” The sergeant’s voice was a roar to hurt the ears. Somehow Drew got an arm under Anse’s shoulders and tried to hoist him up. The Kentuckian swallowed blood from his lip and glared at Muller.

  “Suppose you ask those high-binders of yours!” he snapped. And once more it was Sergeant Rennie who spoke.

  Other hands joined his to boost Anse. With Topham’s aid Drew regained his feet and got the staggering Texan, still half unconscious, onto a chair.

  “I’m interested, too.” The cantina owner’s drawl was as slow as ever, but it held a note of a whiplash.

  “Them soldiers.…” Fowler appeared, the bar-side shotgun across his arm—“they jumped th’ boys. I saw it, myself.”

  “Yeah, told yuh these town buzzards’re all th’ same. Stick together an’ have it in for th’ army!”

  Drew could not see which of the troopers had burst out with that, but in his present mood all bluecoats were the enemy.

  “Dirty Yanks!” Anse’s eyes were fully focused now—right on the sergeant. Anse struggled to get up, but Topham’s hands on his shoulders held him down. His hand went to his holster, and Drew’s fist came down on the Texan’s wrist, hard.

  “See that thar, Sarge! Th’ stinkin’ polecat of a Reb was gonna draw on you! Told you, they’s all alike. Th’ war ain’t over; we jus’ gotta keep on lickin’ ’em. Give us room, an’ we’ll do it again—now!”

  Anse’s face was green-white under the weathering, save for the wound on his jaw. He was watching Muller as if the sergeant, rather than his men, was the focal point of any future attack.

  “You—Stevens—shut your trap!” Muller’s roar brought silence. Drew could actually hear the panting breaths of the men now.

  “Mitchell, what happened here?” Muller turned to the man at his far right.

  The trooper was younger than the rest, his face still holding something of a boyish roundness. His eyes shifted under the sergeant’s steady, boring stare, and he glanced at the rest of his companions, the two disheveled fighters, the lanky man picking up a forage cap and handing it to one of them.

  “I dunno, Sergeant. Th’ boys…they was jus’ funnin’. They didn’t meant nothin’, jus’ funnin’. Then these here Rebs, they come right after Helms, was gonna jump him from behind. An’ Danny waded in jus’ to keep that one”—the boy pointed straight at Drew—“offa Helms. That’s what happened. Th’ boys didn’t mean no harm—jus’ havin’ a little fun—when these Rebs jumped ’em!”

  Drew pulled up his neckerchief and dabbed at his cut lip. Anse had subsided, though he was still watching the sergeant with an unrelenting gaze. The Kentuckian tried to remember where Fowler had been during the fracas. He had spoken up for them already, but would Muller accept his testimony over that of his own men? There was already ill feeling between the army and the town. Drew rememberedDon Cazar’s encounter with Bayliss at Kells’ stable. What had Reese Topham said then? That the captain was only waiting to make trouble for Rennie. And now here he was himself—one of Rennie’s riders—involved in a saloon fight with troopers. Drew began to realize that this could be even worse than the physical punishment he and Anse had suffered.

  “You…bartender—” The sergeant now looked to Fowler. “What’d you see?”

  “You ain’t gonna take his word for it, for anythin’ in this mudhole of a town, are you, Sarge? They’d all lie their heads off to git a trooper into trouble. Wouldn’t you now?” The
lanky man sidled along the bar to snarl at Fowler.

  “Stevens, shut that big mouth of yours, an’ I ain’t gonna say that agin! All right, Fowler, tell me what you saw!”

  Fowler slid the shotgun out of sight, apparently sure that an armistice, at least, was assured.

  “Th’ boys”—he nodded at Drew and Anse—“were sittin’ at that table, mindin’ their own business. Helms, he went over an’ picked up a book—”

  “A book!” Muller’s craggy features mirrored astonishment. “What book? Why?”

  Topham moved and suddenly they were all watching him. He stooped, picked up the dark-brown volume, and a torn page fluttered to the floor. He gathered that up, too, and tucked it back in the proper place.

  “It would seem, Sergeant,” he remarked, “that there wasa book involved. And if your men didn’t bring it in here, then Kirby or his friend must have. This is certainly not a cantina fixture. Hmm, History of the Conquest of Mexico,” he read the title on the cracked spine. “There are more books, I see.” He stepped to the side of the overturned table, gathered the other two volumes, and placed them together in a neat pile on the bar. All of the men continued to watch him as if his actions were highly significant.

  “So—” he turned to face Muller. “We have established that there was a book, in fact, three books.”

  “What’d you want with that book, Helms?” Muller demanded.

  He was met by a scowl. “Nothin’. I was jus’ funnin’—like Ben said. Then them Rebs started playin’ rough, an’ we jus’ gave ’em a lesson.”

  Fowler snorted. “I say Helms started it, an’ th’ jumpin’ went th’ other way ’round, Sergeant. An’ that’s all I got to say.”

  “Well, it isn’t all I have to say! Sergeant, just what is going on here?”

  Whoever, having once heard that turkey cock crow, could ever forget it, thought Drew. Captain Bayliss strode in, powdery white dust graying his blue blouse, his face redder and more sun peeled than ever. The troopers behind Muller stiffened into wooden soldiers, all expression vanishing from their features until they matched each other in exact anonymity.