The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “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!

  CHAPTER 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 g
et 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, DonCazar.”

  “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.