by Andre Norton
“Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ over there!”
Drew took a scrambling leap out of the water to their tangle of clothing, his hand reaching for one of the Colts in the belt he had left carefully on top of the pile. All those stories of Apaches weaseling into touching distance of the guard at the Stronghold.… Why, only last year the younger Rivas boy had had his throat slit out in the hay field within sight of his home!
The Kentuckian crouched, alert, Anse beside him now, both listening for any suspicious sound. At last they huddled into their clothes, hurried back to the bunkhouse. Bartolomé was there waiting for them.
“You Tejanos—” There was no pretense of friendliness in his hail. “The patrón will see you, pronto!”
They went, tugging their clothing into order as they paused outside the door. Drew rapped, took the sound from within as an invitation, and pushed aside the heavy oak planks.
Outwardly the room was unchanged. No one had moved those old Spanish chests, the skin rugs, the table, since his last visit there. But he had the feeling that it was chill now, cold, as if a hearth fire had been allowed to die into ashes. Perhaps that thought crossed his mind because Hunt Rennie stood by the fireplace moving the toe of his boot back and forth across a smear of gray powder. His back greeted them unwelcomingly, and the silence lengthened uncomfortably until Drew did as he always had and met the unpleasant head-on.
“You wanted us, suh?” It was like being back in the army. Even his arm twitched as if some muscle was activated by memory to make one of those informal military salutes the scouts favored.
Hunt Rennie did turn now. His eyes leveled on them. In the light of the candles his cheeks looked even more hollow tonight, and he moved stiffly as might a man who was not only bone-tired in body, thought Drew, but weary in mind as well.
“You are Anson Kirby?” he addressed the Texan first.
“Yes, suh.” Anse, too, must be caught up in the same web of memory. That was his old report-to-the-commanding-officer voice.
“I understand you two thought it necessary to take on some troopers in the Jacks.”
What was the proper reply to that? Drew wondered. Probably it was best to follow the old army rule of keep the mouth shut, never volunteer, no explanations. If Hunt Rennie had had the story from Topham or Nye, he already knew how the fight began.
“I won’t have troublemakers on the Range.” Now the voice, too, was tired. The youthfulness which had impressed Drew on their initial meeting had drained from this man tonight. He was taut as if pulled harp-string tight inside. Drew knew that feeling also. But what battle had Rennie emerged from—some struggle with Shannon or Bayliss?
Then the words made sense, penetrating his concern for the man who had said them. Well, this dismissal only matched his gloomiest expectations.
“Can’t any of you young fools get it through your thick heads that the war’s over? Saloon brawling with the army ain’t going to change that. It’ll only get you into worse difficulties around here.”
A spark of protest awoke inside Drew. Rennie was reading this all wrong. He and Anse certainly hadn’t been trying to wipe away the bitter taste of Gainesville by jumping some blue coats in a cantina hundreds of miles and more than a year away from where they had been forced to admit, at last, that bulletless carbines and bare feet could not keep on shooting and marching.
“Must have been mistaken about you, Kirby.” Now Rennie looked at Drew.
The Kentuckian met those dark eyes squarely, his first unvoiced protest stiffening into defiance. But he faced the older man steadily. Anse, watching them both, drew a small, fast breath. Good thing for Drew there were no other witnesses now; the likeness between the two Rennies was unmistakable at this moment.
Hunt Rennie did not follow up his half accusation. He appeared to be expecting some reply. What? A childish promise to be a good boy, not to do it again? Drew’s half-unconscious concern for this man burned away speedily, ignited by what he deemed injustice.
Anse broke the too long silence. “I don’t know what you heard ’bout that there fight, suh,” he drawled. “Can’t see as how we could have done no different nohow. But that’s no call to saddle it all on Drew. Me, I had a hand—two fists—in it, too. An’ if that’s what’s th’ matter, I can pull out—”
“No!” Drew’s hand came up in the old gesture to stop the line of march. “We’ll both ride, Mr. Rennie. We don’t aim to argue the matter any. Only—there’s one thing—I brought Shadow and the filly down with the wagon train. The foal’s too young to trail on now. They’re blooded stock. I’ve papers for them. I’ll sell.…”
He loathed saying every word of that. It was not only the thought of giving up Shadow and the foal, though he knew that would cut with a deeper hurt every day. It was having to ask any kind of favor from this man. Not that such a sale was a favor; Rennie ought to be glad to get such blood for the Range.
“You ain’t goin’ to do that!” Anse was stung into angry protest.
But Drew was unaware of the Texan’s outburst, his entire attention for Hunt Rennie. The tall man came over to the table, moved one of the candelabra forward as if to throw more light on Drew.
“That your choice of solutions, boy—to run?”
Drew flushed. The unfairness of that jab pushed him off balance. What did this man want of him anyway? Rennie had said it plain that he did not want Drew and Anse on the Range.
“Running never settled anything.” Rennie’s fingers traced the spread of the candelabra’s arms. “Neither does jumping to conclusions. Has anyone said you were through here, unless by your own choice?”
Drew was jarred into an answer. “You said—”
Rennie sighed. “Do any of you young fire-eaters ever listen to more than one tenth of what any of your elders say? I am saying and making it plain: If you make a steady practice of trading punches with a trooper or with any one else because you take a dislike to his face, the way his ears stick out, how he walks or talks, or what color coat he wore in the war, then you can roll your beds and ride out—the sooner the better.
“Reese Topham tells me that he explained the local situation to you, and you appeared to understand it then. Any difficulty with the army could have serious consequences, not just for you, but for the Range as well. This time you were not the aggressors. But after being forewarned, if it happens again, I’ll be hard to convince that you were in the right. The war’s over—keep on remembering that. This is new country where it doesn’t, or shouldn’t, matter whether a man wore a blue coat or marched under the Stars and Bars. You’re far too young to let the past cut off the future. Wars can finish a whole way of life for a man.…” His eyes no longer held Drew’s; he was looking beyond toward the half-open door or perhaps at something that he alone could see. “You have to learn to throw away broken things, not cherish them. Never look back!” That dry, tired voice took on a fierce intensity. Then he was back with them again.
“Two Kirbys riding for the same spread is going to be rather confusing. You are Drew, and you are Anson—Anson—” He repeated the name. “What part of Texas are you from?”
“Pa had him a spread down near th’ San Sabe ’fore th’ Comanches came. He was Anson, too—in th’ Rangers for a while, Pa was.”
“Tall man, with a lot of freckles and red hair? Best rider in Miggs’ Company—” It was half question, half assertion.
“You knew Pa!” Anse shouldered past Drew. “That was Pa right enough. He rode with Lieutenant Miggs in the Mex War.”
Hunt Rennie was smiling. Once more years spun away from him. “I ought to know him, son. He toted me across his saddle for a mighty long five miles on a blistering hot day, I having as much to say about the matter as a sack of corn, and being three times as heavy in spite of a starvation diet. Yes, I’ll remember Anson Kirby. He and his squad were the first Americans I ran into after I broke out of a filthy prison. Funny though”—he glanced at Drew—“I don’t remember his mentioning a brother. You are his nephew?”
Rennie nodded. “Well, Anson, if you’re as good a rider as your father, we can use you here. Horse knowledge seems to run in your family. Now, shortly we are expecting aCoronel Luis Oliveri who’s to buy horses for the Juarez forces. He may need some assistance in driving them as far as the border. If he does, both of you’ll go.”
“Yes, suh.”
Drew’s agreement was drowned out by a harsh cry from overhead. Rennie went into action, so swiftly that for a startled moment Drew was left gaping at empty space. DonCazar had caught up one of the rifles from under a window and had crossed the doorway to look back at the roof of the Casa Grande, calling out an inquiry in another language.
“Apaches don’t attack at night!” Drew was heading for the door in turn.
“Outlaws do, when it pays,” Anse shot out grimly.
But on a second hail from the rooftop sentry post Rennie swung the rifle over his arm and faced the outer gate of the patio.
“Unbar, Francisco!” he called in Spanish.
One leaf of the massive door folded back to allow in a small party of horsemen. One saddled but riderless mount galloped along with the rest. Another man held to the high horn with both hands and weaved back and forth while a comrade riding beside him strove to keep him from toppling to the ground. Drew had an impression of bright, almost gaudy uniforms. The men of the Stronghold poured out to take the horses, helping down more than one blood-stained soldier. Their leader, a slender man with dusty gold lace banding his high collar, came directly to Rennie.
“Don Cazar.” His Spanish was a flood in which Drew was lost almost immediately, but Anse listened with parted lips and then translated a quick account.
“This here’s th’ Coronel. He an’ his men was bushwhacked. Got away ’cause they met th’ wagon train goin’ south an’ whoever was eatin’ their dust huntin’ them didn’t seem to like the odds. Not Apaches, probably bandidos—”
“Kitchell?” Drew asked.
“My guess is they ain’t sure. Got hit quick an’ had to stampede to save their skins.”
Oliveri’s men were taken in and Drew saw Rennie himself going from one of the wounded to another, applying bandages and once probing skillfully for a bullet. Drew commented on that, and Nye answered:
“Old Man knows what’s he’s doin’. He ain’t no real doc, of course, but was I totin’ me a hunka lead in some serious part, I’d rather have him diggin’ for it than a lotta docs I’ve seen out here. Heard tell as how once he was plannin’ to be a real doc hisself. He sure can take care of a fella good. What I’d like to know is how them bushwhackers knew jus’ where to lay down an’ wait for Oliveri.”
“What do you mean?”
“This here Coronel, he was comin’ to buy hosses an’ so he was carryin’ money or else somethin’ as could pass for money. We all knowed he was comin’. But we didn’t know when or what road, an’ he wasn’t tellin’ that his side of th’ border neither. Only some jasper had such a good idea as to that what an’ where, he an’ some amigos was squattin’ back of rocks jus’ waitin’ for th’ Coronel to ride into their little pocket of fire.”
“Mexicans could have trailed them up, cut ahead and waited—”
“Sure. Only this operation was too slick for most bandidos. They don’t go in for timed, planned things; they jus’ cut loose when they see a chance. This was different. Only Fenner an’ some of the train guards ridin’ in spoiled their game.”
“Kitchell then?”
“Sounds more like. Don’t think Kitchell’s some common ridge-ridin’ bad man. He’d never’ve lasted this long was that so—not with th’ Old Man an’ th’ army an’ what law there is in th’ territory all gunnin’ for him. Plans things, Kitchell does, an’ so far his plannin’ has always paid off.
“There’s something else true now, too. Was Kitchell plannin’ to make a break south, he’d want him a good big stake to cover him on cold nights an’ winter days. I jus’ wonder if this here ain’t th’ first of a lot of fancy raidin’ jobs. Could be he’ll hit fast an’ hard, gather up all th’ sweepin’s an’ light out. Could jus’ be.…”
“Don’t promise us much shadin’ times, does it?” Anse remarked. “Sounds like everybody’s goin’ to have to set up a string an’ ride hosses in rotation. That is, always supposin’ your supposin’ is right.”
“Yeah, always supposin’ that,” Nye agreed.
CHAPTER 11
“Magnífico!”
Drew glanced over Shiloh’s back to the speaker. CoronelOliveri paused in the doorway of the stable to study the stallion with almost exuberant admiration mirrored on his dark and mobile features.
“Don Cazar”—the Mexican officer raised a gloved hand in a beckoning gesture—“por favor, Excellency…this one, he is of the Blood?”
Hunt Rennie joined Oliveri. “You are right. He is indeed of the Blood,” he assented.
“It is past all hope then to offer for him?” Oliveri was smiling, but his eyes held a greedy glint Drew had seen before. Shiloh was apt to produce that reaction in any horseman.
“He is not mine to sell, Coronel. He belongs to SeñorKirby who stands there with him.”
“So?” Oliveri’s open astonishment irritated Drew. Maybe he did have on rough work clothes and look the part of a range drifter. But then when the Coronel had arrived here last night, he had not been too neat either.
“A fine horse, señor.” Oliveri came on in, now including Drew in his gaze.
“I think so, Coronel,” Drew returned shortly. He gave a last brush to flank and smoothed the saddle blanket.
“From a distance you have brought him, señor?” Oliveri walked about the stud as Drew went to fetch his saddle.
“From Kentucky.” Was he unduly suspicious or was there a challenge in the Mexican officer’s voice—a faint suggestion that the antecedents of both horse and owner were in question?
“Kentucky…” Oliveri stumbled in his repetition of the word. “I have heard of Kentucky horses.”
“Most people have.” Drew tightened the cinch. Then his pride in Shiloh banished some of his stiffness. “He is of the line of Eclipse.” Maybe that would not mean much to a Mexican, though. The breeding of eastern American horses probably did not register south of the border.
“Señor—such a one—he is not for sale?”
“No.” Drew knew that sounded curt, but Oliveri ruffled him. He added, “One does not sell a friend.”
Oliveri gave what sounded to Drew like an exaggerated sigh. “Señor, you have spoiled my day. How can one look at lesser animals when one has seen such a treasure? DonCazar, the Range harbors so many treasures—Oro, and now this one. How is he named, señor?”
“Shiloh.”
“Shiloh…” The Coronel made a sibilant hiss of the word. “An Indio name?”
“No, a battle.” Drew prepared to lead out. “In the war.”
“So. And this one is a fighter, too. I think. Señor, should you ever wish to sell, por favor, remember one Luis Oliveri! For such a horse as this—sí, a man might give a fortune! Ah, to ride into camp before that puffed-up gamecock of a Merinda on such a horse!” Oliveri closed his eyes as if better to imagine the triumph.
“Shiloh’s not for sale, Coronel,” Drew replied.
Oliveri shrugged. “Perhaps now, no. But time changes and chance changes, señor. So remember Luis Oliveri will give a fortune—and this is the truth, señor!”
“Hunt!” Drew was forced to halt as Johnny Shannon stood straight ahead of him in the stable entrance. “Teodoro Trinfan’s come in with some news you oughta hear.”
“So? Well. I’m coming. Coronel, Johnny can show you the stock we have ready. I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Still I say”—Oliveri shook his head as Rennie pushed past Drew and Shilo
h and went out—“that after seeing this one, all others will be as pale shadows of nothingness. But since I must have horses, Señor Shannon, I will look at horses.Buenos dias, señor.” He raised a hand to Drew and the Kentuckian nodded.
But Shannon still stood in the doorway, and short of walking straight into him there was no way for Drew to leave. Johnny was smiling a little—just as he had back in Tubacca in Topham’s office before the race.
“Seems like you’ve got you a four-legged gold mine there, Kirby,” he said. “Better keep your eyes peeled—gold claims have been jumped before in this country. Kitchell’d give a lot to git a hoss like that to run south.”
“He’d have to,” Drew said grimly. “In lead—if he wanted it that way.”
“Kinda sure of that, ain’t you?” The smile had not cracked, nor had it reached those shuttered blue eyes. Why did everyone say Johnny Shannon was a boy? Inside he was older than most of the men Drew had known—as old and cold as the desert rocks in nighttime. Again the Kentuckian was teased by a scrap of memory. Once before he had seen old eyes in a boy’s face, when it had meant deadly danger for him.
“When a man has somethin’ as belongs to him, he doesn’t step aside easy if another makes a play to grab it,” he said.
For the first time then he did see a flicker in Shannon’s eyes. And his hand tightened so on the reins that some fraction of his reaction must have reached Shiloh. The horse neighed, pawed with a forefoot.
“Just what I’ve always thought, too, Kirby.” Shannon’s voice was softer, more drawling than ever. And there was menace in it—but why? What did Shannon have against him? This was more now than the fact that they had both bristled, incompatible, at their first meeting. It was more than just instinctive dislike. No, Johnny Shannon was not a reckless boy; Drew Kirby knew that, if no one else on the Range did.
“Coronel”—Shannon stepped aside from the door—“we may not be able to git you somethin’ as fine as this here prancer, but we ain’t altogether lackin’ in mighty good hosses. Come ’long an’ look ’em over.…”
Drew rode off, out of the patio gate, giving Shiloh his daily workout, trying to guess what Johnny Shannon had against him. Had he been right in his fear that Johnny had not been unconscious back in Tubacca, that he had caught Anse’s greeting? Rennie was not too common a name, but he did not see how Johnny could possibly have hit upon the truth.