Chapter III: Part 3

"And this plan of yours?" Why had León come to him with it? Surely young Rivas had better and closer friends at the Stronghold. Why approach a newcomer?

"That pinto—he is a fighter; he likes to fight. He will not allow another stud on the ground he claims."

Drew was beginning to understand. Wild ones were sometimes trapped by a belled mare staked out to draw them in. But a stud to catch a fighting stud was another plan altogether.

"You would offer him a fight?"

"_Sí_, but not a real fight. Just allow him to believe that there would be one. Pull him so out of hiding in the rocks—"

"Using what stud for bait?"

"_Señor_ Juanito—he said a stud that would fight too, like Shiloh."

"Shiloh!" Drew wadded the towel in his fist and pitched it across the room. "Shiloh!"

León must have read something of Drew’s blazing anger in his face, for the Mexican’s mouth went a little slack and his hand came up in an involuntary gesture as if to ward off a blow.

"It is a good plan!" His boy’s voice was thin in protest against Drew’s expression.

"It is a harebrained, dangerous scheme," began Drew; then he switched to a question. "Did Johnny Shannon suggest using Shiloh for bait, or was that your idea?"

"_Señor_ Juanito—he said one must have a good horse, a fighter. But such a horse would not be hurt. We would wait with rifles and shoot the pinto quickly before he attacked. There would be no harm to Shiloh, none at all. _Señor_ Juanito said that. Only a trick to get the _diablo_ where we could shoot. Maybe—" Leon’s eyes dropped, a flush rose slowly on his brown cheeks—"maybe it was very foolish. But when _Señor_ Juanito told it, it sounded well."

"Did he tell you to ask me about it?"

The flush darkened. "He did not say so, _señor_. But one would not do such a thing without permission. Also, you should be one of the hunters, no? How else could we go?"

"Well, there won’t be any huntin’ of that kind, León. Trinfan knows what he’s doin’, and I don’t think that pinto is goin’ to be runnin’ loose—or alive—much longer."

Drew pulled a clean shirt over his head. What kind of game was Johnny Shannon trying to play? Apparently he had almost talked León into using Shiloh as bait in this fool stunt. Had he expected the kid to take the horse without Drew’s knowledge? Or for some reason had he wanted León to spill this? A trick to get Shiloh out of the Stronghold? But why?

He buckled on his gun belt, settled the twin holsters comfortably. Shannon—what and why, he repeated silently. Nothing sorted out in his mind. Drew only felt a prickle of uneasiness which began between his shoulder blades and ran a chill down his spine, as if rifle sights were on him.

But Shannon did not return to the Stronghold, and Drew was kept busy at the corrals from dawn to dusk. In a month of hard work it was easy to forget what might only be fancies.

There was an invigorating crispness in the air, and the dun gelding the Kentuckian rode savored the breeze as a desert dweller savors water. Drew was indulgent with his mount’s skittishness as they pounded along at the tail of the horse herd bound for Tubacca.

From a rocky point well before them there was a flash of light. Jared Nye, on Drew’s left, took off his hat and waved a wide-armed signal to answer Greyfeather’s mirror. Two of the Pimas were scouting ahead on this two-day drive, and the Anglo riders were keeping the herd to a trot. Apaches, Kitchell, even _bandidos_ from over the border, could be sniffing about the Range, eyeing its riches, ready to pick up anything left unprotected. The men rode with their rifles free of the boot, fastened by a loop of rawhide to the saddle horn, the old Texas precaution which allowed for instant action. And at each halt the six-shooter Colts’ loading was checked.

Nye swerved, sending a lagger on with a sharp crack of quirt in the air. He pulled up to match Drew’s sobered trot.

"That’s the last bad stretch; now it’ll be downhill an’ green fields all th’ way." Nye nodded at the narrow opening between two hills lying ahead. "Glad to get this band in on all four legs an’ runnin’ easy."

"You expected trouble?"

"Kid, in this here country you don’t expect nothin’ else but. Last time we brought hosses up th’ trail they jumped us four, five miles back—right close to where we saw that pile of bones this mornin’. ’Fore he knew what hit us Jim Berry was face down an’ never got up again. An’ th’ Old Man took him a crease ’crost th’ ribs that made him bleed like a stuck pig. Got him patched up an’ into town; then he keeled over when he tried to git down off his hoss an’ was in bed a week."

"Apaches?"

"Naw, we figured it was Kitchell. Couldn’t prove it though, an’ after that th’ Old Man made a rule we take Pimas every drive. Ain’t nothin’ able to surprise them. I never had no use for Injuns, but these here are peaceful cusses—iffen they don’t smell an Apache. With them ridin’ point we’re sure slidin’ th’ groove. Me, I’ll be glad to hit town. I’d shore like to keep th’ barkeep busier than a beaver buildin’ hisself a new dam. Though with th’ Old Man off reppin’ for th’ law down along the border and needin’ hands back on the Range, we swallows down th’ dust nice an’ easy an’ takes it slow. Anyway, this far from payday I kin count up mosta m’ roll without takin’ it outta m’ pocket."

"This Kitchell...think it’s true that some of the ranchers are really helpin’ him?"

"Don’t know. Might be he’s tryin’ to play th’ deuce against th’ whole deck. Lessen he lives on th’ kind of whisky as would make a rabbit up an’ spit in a grizzly’s eye hole, he’s got somethin’—or someone—to back him. Me...were th’ Old Man poundin’ th’ hills flat lookin’ for me, I’d crawl th’ nearest bronc an’ make myself as scarce as a snake’s two ears." Nye shrugged. "Kitchell’s got some powerful reason for squattin’ out in th’ brush playin’ cat-eyed with most of th’ territory. Maybe so there’re some as will sit in on his side, but they’ve sure got their jaws in a sling an’ ain’t bawlin’ about it none. ’Course lotsa people were red-hot Rebs back in ’61 till they saw as how white men fightin’ each other jus’ naturally gave th’ Apaches an’ some of th’ border riffraff idears ’bout takin’ over. But mosta us now ain’t wavin’ no flag. Iffen Kitchell has got him some diehards backin’ him—" Nye shrugged again. "Git ’long there, you knock-kneed, goat-headed wagon-loafer!" He pushed on to haze another slacker.

They were dusty and dry when they dropped the corral gate in place and watched the horses mill around. Drew headed for Kells’ stable. Shadow nickered a greeting and turned around as if to purposefully edge her daughter forward for his inspection.

"Pretty, ma’am," he told her. "Very pretty. She’s goin’ to be as fine a lady as her ma—I’m willin’ to swear to that."

The filly lipped Drew’s fingers experimentally and then snorted and did a frisky little dance with her tiny hoofs rustling in the straw. Kells had been as good as his promise, Drew noted. Mother and child had had expert attention, and Shadow’s coat had been groomed to a glossy silk; her black mane and tail were rippling satin ribbons.

"Gonna take ’em back to th’ Range with you, Mister Kirby?" Callie came down from the loft.

"Yes. I’ll need a cart and driver though. We’ll have to give the foal a lift. Know anyone for hire, Callie?"

"I’ll ask around. Have any trouble comin’ up?"

"No. Greyfeather and Runnin’ Fox were scoutin’ for us."

"Stage was jumped yesterday on th’ Sonora road," Callie volunteered. "One men got him a bullet in th’ shoulder, but they got away clean. It was Kitchell, th’ driver thought. Captain Bayliss took out a patrol right away. You plannin’ on goin’ back with Kitchell out?"

"Don’t know," Drew replied absently. Better leave that decision to Nye; he knew the country and the situation. "You ask about the cart, Callie, but don’t make it definite. Have to see how things turn out."

Drew started for the Four Jacks to meet Nye. Back here in Tubacca he was conscious how much he had allowed his personal affairs to drift from day to day. Of course he had seen very little of Hunt Rennie at the Stronghold; his father had ridden south on patrol with his own private posse shortly after his own arrival there. But whenever Drew thought seriously of the future he had that odd sense of dislocation and loss which he had first known on the night he had seen _Don_ Cazar arrive at the cantina. _Don_ Cazar—Hunt Rennie. Drew Kirby—Drew Rennie. A seesaw to make a man dizzy, or maybe the vertigo he felt was the product of too much sun, dust, and riding.

There was someone at a far table in the cantina, but otherwise the dusky room was empty. Drew went directly to the bar. "Got any coffee, Fowler?"

"Sure thing. Nye was in here ’bout five minutes ago. Said for you to wait here for him. You hear ’bout Kitchell holdin’ up th’ stage?"

"Callie told me. Said the army patrol went out after him."

"Yeah, don’t mean they’ll nail him though. He’s as good as an Apache ’bout keepin’ undercover. Here’s your coffee. Want some grub, too?"

The smell of coffee revived Drew’s hunger. "Sure could use some. Haven’t eaten since we broke camp at sunup."

"Sing’s in th’ kitchen. I’ll give him th’ sign to rattle th’ pans. Say—been racin’ that Shiloh of yours lately? Sure am glad I played a hunch an’ backed him against Oro." Fowler’s red forelock bobbed over his high forehead as he nodded vigorously.

"No racin’ on the Range."

"Hope you’re keepin’ him closer. That border crew’d sure like to git a rope on him! Down Sonora way one of them Mexes would dig right down to th’ bottom of his money chest to buy a hoss like that. I’ll go an’ tell Sing."

Drew, coffee mug in hand, sat down at a table where some of the breeze beat in the door now and then. Lord, he was really tired. He stretched out his legs, and the sun made twinkly points of light on the rowels of the Mexican spurs. Sipping the coffee, he allowed himself the luxury of not doing any thinking at all.

Fowler brought a heaping plate and Drew began to eat.

"Oh, there you are!" Nye slammed in, swung one of the chairs about, and sat on it back to front, his arms folded across the back.

"You ridin’ out to tell the army we’re here—with the horses?" Drew asked.

"Nope, caught sight of them ridin’ in. Looked like Sergeant Muller was in command—he’ll come in here. Hey, Fowler, how’s about another plate of fodder?"

"Steady on, fella. Make it straight ahead now!"

Both of them looked up. A burly man wearing sergeant’s stripes steered a slighter figure before him through the open door. Johnny Shannon, a bandage about his uncovered head, lurched as if trying to free himself from the other’s grip and caught at a chair back. Nye and Drew jumped up to ease him into a seat.

"What’s—?" began Nye.

Muller interrupted. "Found him crawlin’ along right near town. Says as how he was took by Kitchell ’n’ got away, but he ain’t too clear ’bout what happened or where. Wearin’ a crease ’longside his skull; maybe that scrambled up his thinkin’ some."

"Better get Doc Matthews. I think he’s in town." Fowler came from the bar, a glass in hand.

"Right. I’ll go." Nye started out.

Johnny had slumped forward, his head on the table encircled by his limp arms. Drew was puzzled. Shannon was supposed to have ridden south on the Range, not north. What was he doing this far away from the water-hole route? Had he found a trail which led him in this direction? Or had he been jumped somewhere by Kitchell’s pack of wolves and forced along for some purpose of their own?

"Was he ridin’, Sergeant?" Drew asked, hardly knowing why.

"No—footin’ it. Said somethin’ about Long Canyon after we gave him a pull at a canteen. Sure came a long way if that’s where he started."

"I’ll go get Hamilcar. He knows somethin’ ’bout doctorin’," Fowler cut in. "Maybe Doc Matthews ain’t here, after all."

"Hey, Sarge, can I see you a minute?" came a hail from without.

"You manage." Muller made it more order than request as he left.

Drew sat alone with Shannon, one hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. He was aware of movement behind him. If the fellow at the back table had been dozing earlier, he was roused now.

"Where did you git them spurs?"

Drew turned, his lips shaped a name, tried again, and got it out as a hoarse whisper. "Anse! Don’t you know me, Anse?"

He saw eyes lift from the floor level, the scarred cheek under a ragged fringe of beard; and then astonishment in the other’s expression became a flashing grin.

"Drew—Drew Rennie! Lordy, it’s sure enough Drew Rennie!"

Drew was on his feet. His hands on the other’s shoulders pulled him forward into a rough half embrace. "Anse!" He swayed to the joyous pounding of a fist between his shoulder blades. "I thought you were dead!" he somehow gasped.

"An’ I seen _you_ go down; a slug got you plumb center!" the Texan sputtered. "Rolled ’round a bush an’ saw you git it! But for a ghost you’re sure lively!"

"Caught me in the belt buckle," Drew recounted that miracle of the war. "Knocked me out; didn’t really touch to matter, though."

Anse pushed away a little, still holding Drew tightly by the upper arms. "Anybody told me I’d see Drew Rennie live an’ kickin’, I’d said straight to his face he was a fork-tongued liar!"

Drew came partly to his senses and the present. Fowler ... Nye ... either one of them could come back on this reunion. "Anse—listen! This is important. I ain’t Drew Rennie—not here, not now—"

"Had to draw a new name outta th’ deck?" Anse’s grin faded; his eyes narrowed. "All right, what’s the goin’ handle?"

"Kirby, Drew Kirby ... I’ll explain later." He had given the warning only just in time. Fowler and Hamilcar were coming from the back room of the cantina, and there was a stir at the table.

Johnny was sitting up, his head swaying from side to side, his eyes on Drew and Anse. But the stare was unfocused; he must still be only half conscious. Drew had a fleeting prick of worry. Had Shannon heard anything he would remember? There was nothing to be done about that now.

7

" ... and that’s the way it is." Drew sat on the stool which was the only other furnishing in the bath cubicle while Anse splashed and wallowed in the slab tub.

The Texan swiped soap from his cheek. "An’ ain’t you gonna tell?"

"I don’t know. Would you?"

"Go with m’ hat in hand an’ say, ’Well, Pa, here’s your wanderin’ boy’? No, I dunno as how I’d be makin’ that kinda play neither. Never was one to unspool th’ bedroll till I was sure o’ th’ brand I was ridin’ for. An’ you an’ me’s kinda hide-matched there. Glad you wised me up in time."

"Maybe I didn’t," Drew admitted.

"You mean that Shannon? I know you think he’s filin’ his teeth for you, but I’d say he was too busy countin’ stars from that skull beltin’ to make sense out of our hurrawin’. I’ll give him th’ eye though. Lissen now, you’re Kirby—so am I called for a rebrandin’, too? Seems like two Kirbys turnin’ up in a town this size is gonna make a few people ask some questions."

"You’re my cousin—Anson Kirby." Drew had already thought that out. "Now, you’ve some tall talkin’ to do your ownself. I saw you roll out of your saddle back in Tennessee. How come you turn up here and now?"

Anse sluiced water over his head and shoulders with cupped hands.

"Do I tell it jus’ like it happened, you’ll think I’m callin’ up mountains outta prairie-dog hills, it’s that crazy. But it’s range truth. Yeah, I landed outta that saddle on some mighty hard ground. If you’ll remember, I had me a hole in the shoulder big enough to let th’ wind whistle through. I rolled between th’ bushes jus’ in time to see you get it—plumb center an’ final, so I thought. Then ... well, I don’t remember too good for a while. Next time I was able to take a real interest I was lyin’ on a bed with about a mountain of quilts on top me, weaker’n a yearlin’ what’s jus’ been dragged outta a bog hole. Seems like them Yankees gathered me up with th’ rest of them bushwacker scrubs, but when they got me a mile or so down th’ road they decided as how I’d had it good an’ there was no use wastin’ wagon room on me. So they let me lie....

"Only," the Texan paused and then continued more soberly, "Drew, sometimes—sometimes it seems like a hombre can have a mite more’n his share of luck; or else he’s got him Someone as is line ridin’ for him. We had us friends in Tennessee, an’ it jus’ happened as how I was dropped where one of them families found me. They sure was good folks; patched me up an’ saw me through like I was their close kin. Hid me out by sayin’ as how I had th’ cholera.

"An’ most of th’ time I didn’t know a rope from a saddle—outta my head complete. First there was that shoulder hole; then I got me a good case of lung fever. It was two months ’fore I could crawl round better’n a sick calf what lost its ma too early. Then, jus’ as I got so I could stamp m’ boots on th’ ground an’ expect to stand straight up in ’em, this here Yankee patrol came ’long an’ dogged me right into a bunch o’ our boys they had rounded up. I had me some weeks in a prison stockade, which ain’t, I’m tellin’ you, no way for to spend any livin’ time. Then this here war was over, an’ I was loose. No hoss, no nothin’. Some of th’ boys got to talkin’ ’bout trailin’ back to Texas, tryin’ out some ranchin’ in the bush country. A lotta wild stuff down there—nobody’s been runnin’ brands on anythin’ much since ’61. We planned to get a herd of mavericks, drive up into Kansas or Missouri, an’ sell. A couple of th’ boys had run stuff in that way for th’ army, even swum ’em across the Mississippi. It would maybe give us a start. An’—well, there weren’t nothin’ else to do. So we tried it." Anse sat staring down at the water lapping at his lean middle. His was a very thin body, the ribs standing out beneath the skin almost as harshly as did the weal of the scar on his shoulder.

"And it didn’t work?"

"Well, it might’ve. I ain’t sayin’ it won’t for some hombres. Only we run into trouble. Texas ain’t Texas no more; it’s th’ Fifth Military District. Any man what fought for th’ Confederacy ain’t got any rights. It’s worse’n an Injun war. We got us our herd, leastwise th’ beginnin’ of one. An’ that was back-breakin’ work—we was feelin’ as beat as when we run out of Tennessee after Franklin. Only we kept to it, ’cause it would give us a stake. So we started drivin’ north, an’ they jumped us."

"Who?"

"Yankees—th’ brand what probably set at home an’ let others do th’ real fightin’—ready to come in an’ take over once th’ shootin’ was done with. They grabbed th’ herd. Shot Will Bachus when he stood up to ’em, an’ made it all legal ’cause they had a tin-horn deputy ridin’ with ’em. Well, we got him anyway an’ two or three of th’ others. But then they called in th’ army, an’ we had to ride for it. Scattered so they had more’n one trail to follow. But they posted us as ’wanted’ back there. So I come whippin’ a mighty tired hoss outta Texas, an’ I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ back to any Fifth Military District!"

"Any chance they’ll push a star after you here?"

"No. I’m jus’ small stuff, not worth botherin’ ’bout by their reckonin’, now I ain’t got anythin’ left them buzzards can pick offen m’ bones. They’s sittin’ tight an’ gittin’ fat right there."

"Then it’s all set." Drew tossed Anse a towel. "Climb out and we’ll get started!"

"Doin what?"

"You’ve worked horses, and they can use another wrangler on the Range. Right now they’ve a lot to be topped—want to gentle ’em some and trade ’em south into Mexico. If you ride for _Don_ Cazar, nobody’s goin’ to ask too many questions."

"How d’you know he’ll sign me on?" Anse studied his own unkempt if now clean reflection in the shaving mirror on the wall. "I sure don’t look like no bargain."

"You will when we’re through with you," Drew began. The Texan swung around.

"Looky here, you thinkin’ of grub stakin’? I ain’t gonna—"

"Suppose you had yourself a stack of cart wheels and my pockets were to let?" Drew retorted. "I think I remember me some times when we had one blanket and a hunk of hardtack between us, and there weren’t any ’yours’ or ’mine’ about it! Or don’t you think back that far?"

Anse laughed. "All right, _compadre_, pretty me up like a new stake rope on a thirty-dollar pony. If I don’t agree, likely you’ll trip up m’ foreleg an’ reshoe me anyway. Right now—I’ll say it out good’n clear—I’m so pore m’ backbone rattles when I cough."

"Mistuh Kirby—" Hamilcar came in. "Mistuh Nye says to tell you he’ll be back. Mistuh Shannon’s in bed at th’ doctuh’s; he’s gonna be all right soon’s he gets ovah a mighty big headache."

He had actually forgotten Shannon! Hastily Drew expressed his satisfaction at the news and added:

"This is my cousin from Texas, Hamilcar. He hit town ridin’ light. I’m goin’ over to pick him up a new outfit at Stein’s. You give him all the rest, will you?"

"Yes, suh."

Blue blouses—a corporal’s guard of troopers—were pulling up by the cantina hitch rail as Drew came out into the plaza. Muller’s men probably, he thought. But now he was more intent on Anse’s needs.

Few people had ever broken through the crust of self-sufficiency the Kentuckian had begun to grow in early childhood. His grandfather’s bitter hatred of his father had made Drew an outsider at Red Springs from birth and had finally driven him away to join General Morgan in ’62. Those he had ever cared about he could list on the fingers of one sun-browned, rein-hardened hand: Cousin Meredith; her son Shelly—he had died at Chickamauga between one short breath and the next—Shelly’s younger brother Boyd, who had run away to join Morgan, too, in the sunset of the raider’s career; and Anse, whom he had believed dead until this past hour.

Drew was breathing as fast as if he had charged across the sun-baked plaza at a run, when he came into the general store which supplied Tubacca with nine-tenths of the materials necessary for frontier living. He made his selection with care.

"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’ labels 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.

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 remembered _Don_ 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 _was_ a 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.

"Sergeant, take those two men into custody." A jerk of the head indicated Drew and Anse. The Kentuckian straightened.

"On what charge, Captain?" he got out.

"Attacking a United States soldier."

"In performance of his duty, Captain?" Reese Topham cut in. "I hardly think you can say that. Your men were apparently off duty. At least they were in here, drinking, too. You _did_ serve them, Fowler?"

"Sure did, boss! Let’s see now ... Helms, he had whisky; so did Stevens. Mitchell, now, he had a beer——"

"It remains that they were attacked while wearing the uniform!" Bayliss’ glare now included the full company before him.

"From what I’ve heard, they did the attacking," Topham pointed out. "At least Helms seems to have given provocation. No, Captain Bayliss, your men were in here drinking. They started a brawl. Your sergeant very rightly broke it up. That’s the sum of the matter!"

Bayliss’ high color was fading. "You want it left that way, Topham?" he asked icily. "This only confirms my contention that matters in Tubacca are completely out of control, that the Rebel element has the backing of the citizens. I shall so report it."

"That is your privilege." Topham nodded. "But this is still Tubacca and not your camp, Captain. And _my_ cantina. If you want to declare my establishment out of bounds for your men, that is also your privilege."

"I do so—immediately! Sergeant, get these men out of here!"

"What about the prisoners, sir?"

"I think the captain will agree there are no prisoners," Topham said. "We would be obliged to give evidence at any army hearing, Captain. Kirby here is not a troublemaker. I would unhesitatingly vouch for him."

Bayliss looked directly at Drew.

"You have a job? A reason for being in town?" He shot the questions as he might have shot slugs from his Colt. Nye answered before Drew could.

"He sure has a job, Cap’n. He’s ridin’ th’ rough string for Rennie. An’ he came to town with them remounts you’re buyin’. An’ what Topham says is true, th’ kid ain’t no troublemaker. He’s ’bout th’ most peaceful hombre I ever rode with."

"Rider for Rennie, eh? I might have known!" Bayliss snapped. "And what about this one—he riding for Rennie, too?" He pointed to Anse.

"He’s my cousin," Drew returned. "He just got into town."

"Another Rebel?"

Anse stood up. "If you mean was I with th’ Confederate army, Yankee—I sure was, from Shiloh clean through. Got me this to prove it. Do you want to see?" From the inner band of his hat he brought out a much creased paper. "No, you don’t!" He twitched the sheet away when Bayliss reached for it. "I’ll jus’ let Mister Topham read it. I want to keep it safe." He handed the paper to the gambler.

"Parole, Captain, signed and made out properly," Topham reported. "Dated in Tennessee for a prisoner of war—June, 1865. I hardly think you can claim this is one of Kitchell’s men, if that is what you have in mind."

"No, but he’ll be out of this town or he’ll answer to me. Both of you—next time you step over the line, I’m taking you both in!" Bayliss spoke now to Nye. "I heard young Shannon was here, that you had him in tow and that he’s seen Kitchell. I want to talk to him."

"He’s over to th’ doc’s, an’ Doc’ll have th’ say ’bout that, Cap’n," Nye replied. "Johnny took a pretty bad crease ’longside his skull."

"He’ll answer a few questions that badly need answering." Bayliss was already on his way to the door. Nye stepped back and let him pass. He grinned.

"Let him have it out with Doc. Ain’t nobody runnin’ a stampede over Doc Matthews, not even th’ cap’n when he’s got his tail up an’ ready to hook sod with both horns. Only, lissen here, kid, maybe you’d better keep outta sight. Seems like a man who’s waitin’ to catch a fella makin’ his boot mark in th’ wrong pasture can sometimes do it."

"Nye’s right," Topham agreed. "Bayliss can either catch you off guard or see you’re provoked again into doing something he can rope you in for. I’d get back to the Range and stay there until things settle down a little and someone else takes the good captain’s mind off you."

"What about Anse? You take him on, Nye?" Drew asked.

"I ain’t got th’ authority to hire, Kirby. But no reason why he can’t go down th’ trail with us. Old Man is always on lookout for a good rider. Soon as we see how Johnny’s doin’, we’ll head south. I already sent Greyfeather back to tell the Old Man th’ kid’s hurt an’ up here. Reese, what’d you think ’bout Bayliss? That he’ll try to take over runnin’ the town?"

"Might just," the gambler replied.

"_Could_ he do it?"

"I hardly think so. What he’s really out for is Hunt’s hide. He doesn’t want a powerful civilian ready to face up to him all the time. If he can discredit _Don_ Cazar in this country, he figures he has it made."

Nye laughed shortly. "Lordy, what bottle did he suck out a dream like that? A lizard might jus’ as well try to fight it out with a cougar an’ think he hadda chance of winnin’. This here’s th’ Range, an’ ain’t nobody but th’ Old Man runs th’ Range! Bayliss, he’s ridin’ for a fall as will jar them big grinnin’ teeth of his right outta his jaws!"

"Maybe, only there can be upsets." Topham looked thoughtful.

"What kind—and how?" Drew asked quickly.

Topham was playing with the three books, setting them up, putting them flat again. "Hunt didn’t take sides during the war, but he did have Southern sympathies in part. After all, he was Texas-born. And Johnny joined Howard when they raised that Confederate troop here. He retreated with Sibley’s force back east and fought through the rest of the war on the Southern side. Yes, Bayliss, given the right circumstances and a sympathetic listening ear in high circles, could make trouble for Rennie. Especially if the good captain had an incident on which to hang such a report."

"You kinda shoved him into that out-of-bounds order for th’ Jacks, didn’t you now?" Nye pushed his hat to the back of his head and lit a cigarillo.

"Muller and most of the boys can be counted on not to cause any more than the normal pay-night disturbances. But there’re some.... What _did_ happen here today, Kirby?"

Drew told it straight and flat in as few words as possible. And Topham’s face was sober when he had finished. The gambler brought the top book of the pile down on the bar with a thud.

"I don’t like it!"

"Jus’ ornery meanness, warn’t it? There’s always a few hombres in any outfit as tries to push when they gits a slug or two under their belts," Nye observed.

"True. Only Helms went out of his way this time. And I’d like to know what triggered him into it. I can understand some roughhousing on his part—Stevens, too—providing these boys were on the prod in the beginning. But this book business was too deliberate. Books—" He held up the volume he was still fingering. "Where’d these come from anyway, Kirby?"

Drew retailed the story he had heard from Stein. Nye walked over to look at the display of reading matter, his interest plainly aroused.

"Lutterfield brought ’em in, eh? Now that’s somethin’. Trunk in a cave ... Sounds like these might belong to one of them mine men—a super, maybe. They pulled out fast in ’61, right after th’ army left. Except for Hodges, an’ th’ Rebs threw him in jail after they took his business an’ what cash he had on hand."

"Could be," Topham agreed. "But where they came from doesn’t matter as much as why Helms chose to use them the way he did. However—and now I’m giving it to you straight, Kirby—this is once I’d follow Bayliss’ orders. You and your cousin here had better make yourselves scarce."

"An’ jus’ why?" Anse demanded. "We ain’t givin’ you any double-tongue wag over this——"

"I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that Bayliss and probably Helms—maybe others—will be waiting, just as the captain promised. You can be easily suckered into just such another fight. And they’d be smarter about it next time, so you won’t have anyone to call their bluff in your favor. Once they get you into the camp stockade, it might be difficult to get you out. And this is something else, stranger, you went for your gun a few minutes ago. Kirby stopped you, but next time that could lead to real trouble."

"I can’t see why—" Drew began.

"Well"—Anse was on the defensive—"a man can take jus’ so much pushin’, an’ we had more’n that! Next time anybody lays his dirty hands on me, he’s gonna know he’s had him trouble, all right!"

"I don’t mean that." Drew waved Anse’s retort aside. "I don’t see why we were jumped in the first place. Unless it was because we happened to be here at a time when they wanted to start trouble?" He made that into a question and looked to Topham for the answer.

"Could be," the gambler admitted.

"Only you’re not sure?" Drew persisted.

"Could be you were handy and they had some kind of a hint to start a ruckus just to show there ain’t any proper law here. Could be that they knew you ride for Hunt and that made you just the game they wanted."

"Helms’s kinda dumb to play any cute game," Nye protested. "An’ th’ sarge, he’s always been a good guy, I don’t see him bitin’ happy on any such backhand orders."