Chapter IV: Part 4

"Not orders, no. Captain Bayliss is still too army to give any such orders. Helms’s always been a troublemaker; he wouldn’t need much more than a suggestion or two of the right sort. Helms, Stevens, Danny Birke, and that kid Mitchell. You’re right so far, Nye." Topham grinned. "Like as not, I’m imaginin’ things—a greenhorn huntin’ Apaches behind every bush. None of that crew has the brains to see anything beyond the tip of his nose. No, I guess we can take it that you were handy and they had too much red-eye on empty stomachs. Only, I mean it, Kirby, you walk soft and get back to the Range as quick as you can."

"That suits me," Drew agreed.

"Come on over an’ let Doc take a look at that face of yours," Nye ordered. "You look like you came up behind a mule an’ the critter did a mite of dancin’ backwards! You come ’long, too," he extended the invitation to include Anse.

His face patched up after a fashion, Drew lay full length on the hay in his old place over Shadow’s stall back at Kells’ stable. Anse sat crosslegged beside him, the bruise now a black shadow on his jaw.

"Somethin’ ’bout this show’s bad, plain as a black saddle on a white hoss. Nobody could be fannin’ a six-gun for you personal, Drew, ’less you had a run-in before with one of them Blue Bellies." The Texan paused and Drew shook his head, wincing at the pain from his numerous cuts and bruises.

Anse went on. "Some hombres are always on th’ peck once they get likkered up, but them troopers weren’t that deep. Looks to me now, thinkin’ it over, they was out to make sod fly. Could be as they had trouble with some other riders an’ we was handy an’ looked peaceable enough to take easy. But I dunno. You know, a fella who’s scouted an’ hunted Injuns an’ popped bush cattle, to say nothin’ of toppin’ wild ones what can look like a nice quiet little pony one minute an’ have a belly full of bedsprings an’ a sky touchin’ back th’ next—a fella who’s had him all that kinda experience an’ a saddlebag full of surprises in his time gits so he can smell a storm comin’ ’fore th’ first cloud shows. If we had the sense we shoulda been born with, we’d ride hell-to-thunder outta here now!"

"Anse"—Drew wriggled up on one elbow—"you do that. I ain’t going to pull you into anything—"

"So," the Texan said, nodding, "you’ve been swallowin’ down a whim-wham or two your ownself?"

"Yes, but every one of them could be only a shadow to scare a jackrabbit."

"Only you plan to go out an’ spit in th’ shadow’s eye?"

"Guess so."

"Then there’ll be two of us. Providin’ Rennie can use him ’nother hand. You know, this might be interestin’. ’Member what they used to say in the army? Don’t go borrowin’ trouble nor try to cross a river till you git th’ water lappin’ at your boots."

9

"Times is gittin’ better." Crow Fenner rode with one knee cocked up over the horn of his saddle, allowing Tar to drop into a pace at which he seemed to be actually sleep-walking. The wagon train was traveling slow, the wagons riding heavy in the ruts with their burden of northern goods heading south. But they were strung in good order and Drew, having seen the screen of outriders and Pima Scouts, thought that though they offered temptation, they were not to be easily taken by anything less than a small troop, very well armed and reckless.

"Yes, siree, this here’s th’ second time we made th’ trip through without havin’ to burn up a sight of gunpowder! Guess them army boys millin’ around back an’ forth across th’ territory do some good, after all. Pretty soon there won’t be no need for wearin’ guns loose an’ tryin’ to grow eyes in th’ back of yore skull!" But Fenner’s own rifle still rode on guard across his knees, and Drew noted that the scout never broke a searching survey of the countryside.

"Gittin’ downright civilized, eh?" Anse brought his mount up equal with the other two.

Fenner spat. "Now that thar I ain’t cottonin’ to none. Ride ’long without some Injun or _bandido_ poppin’ lead at m’back. Yep, that’s what a man kin enjoy. But I ain’t takin’ to have maybe one o’ them thar engine trains snortin’ out dirty smoke an’ sparks hereabouts. Took me a ride on one of them things onct—never agin! Why a man wants to git hisself all stuck up with cinders an’ cover territory faster than th’ Good Lord ever intended him to travel—that’s some stupid thinkin’ I can’t take to. A good hoss, maybe a wagon, does a man want to do some tradin’ like _Don_ Cazar—that’s right enough. But them trains, they’s pure pizen an’ a full soppin’ keg o’ it!"

Drew looked about him. The road, rutted deep by the heavy wagons, curled southward. Those wheel tracks had first been cut almost a hundred years earlier when the Spaniards had set up their southwestern outposts. This country was far older than Kentucky, and with just as bloody a history of wars, raids, and battles. Kentucky had been tamed; trains did puff along through the Blue Grass and the mountains there. But here—he shook his head in answer to his own thoughts.

"Ain’t nobody gonna try to run a railroad through here," Anse replied promptly. "First place, they’re gonna be busy for a while back east puttin’ up new ones for all them what were busted up in th’ war. Our boys an’ theirs, too, got real expert toward th’ end—could heat up a rail an’ tie a regular noose in it, were some tree handy to rope it ’round. Gonna take th’ Yankees some doin’ to git all them back into place." He laughed. "Drew, ’member that time we took them river steamers an’ had us a real feed? Times when I was in that Yankee stockade eatin’ th’ swill they called rations I used to dream ’bout them pickles an’ canned peaches an’ crackers with long sweetin’ poured on ’em!"

"Heard tell as you boys don’t think th’ war’s clear over yet," Fenner observed. "Didn’t you have yoreselves a ruckus with th’ soldiers at th’ Four Jacks?"

Drew’s reminiscent smile faded. But he was not going to keep on protesting about the right or wrong of what happened back in town. The way Nye and Topham had hustled Anse and him out with the wagon train had made it seem as if they were in disgrace, and that rankled a lot. What was expected of them—that they should have let Helms pour it on—maybe serve as butts for a series of practical jokes without raising a finger in their own defense? On the other hand, the Kentuckian could see the sense behind Topham’s arguments. If Bayliss wanted to use Drew’s connection with the Range as a weapon in some scheme against Hunt Rennie, then Hunt Rennie’s son was only too willing to clear out. Perhaps he should clear out even farther and head for California. Drew began to think about that. There was Sage. She couldn’t hope to make such a trip for maybe six months. That would mean putting off traveling until next spring or early summer. But six months ... Of course, he _could_ go now. _Don_ Cazar would buy the foal and Shadow, too, and give him a fair price. That would be relinquishing a dream. No Spur R brand would ever be established here in Arizona. But sometimes dreams were priced too high....

"You’re mighty grim-mouthed," Anse commented, glancing at Drew sideways. "Thinkin’ of trains runnin’ through here git you down that far? Or else that roughenin’ up you took in town still sit sour on your stomach?"

"Sits sour all right," Drew admitted. "Sits sourer to think we were suckered into it."

The scout glanced from one to the other of the young men.

"You think there’s somethin’ in all that talk Topham was givin’ lip to?" Anse asked.

"Could be. Can’t say as how I’d like to find out the truth. Look here, Fenner, we’ve heard a lot about Captain Bayliss wantin’ to make trouble for _Don_ Cazar. Does everybody believe that?"

"Everybody wot ain’t blind, deef, or outta their natural-born wits," Fenner replied. "Bayliss come out here two years ago. ’Fore that, Major Kenny, he was in command between here an’ Tucson. Had him an outpost right on th’ edge o’ th’ Range. Him an’ _Don_ Cazar, they never talked no war, ’cept ’gainst Apaches an’ th’ _bandidos_. Was there a raid, th’ major, he took out th’ troops; and _Don_ Cazar, he took out his riders an’ th’ Pimas. ’Tween ’em they give everybody wot wanted a spot of trouble all they could chew off an’ a lot more’n they could swallow. Kept things quiet even if a man hadda rest his hand on his rifle ’bout twenty-four hours outta every day.

"But this here Bayliss—he’s been like a mule with a burr under his tail ever since he hit th’ territory. Wants to have th’ say ’bout everything—includin’ wot goes on at th’ Range—which he ain’t never goin’ t’ have as long as _Don_ Cazar kin sit th’ saddle an’ ride. Back in ’62 when th’ Rebs came poundin’ in here, they spoke soft an’ nice to _Don_ Cazar. They wanted him to back their play an’ see ’em straight on to Californy. He was from Texas an’ them Texas boys jus’ naturally thought as how he’d saddle up an’ ride right ’long wi’ ’em. Only he said it loud an’ clear—that such ruckusin’ round only meant th’ whole country here’d go to pot. When th’ army pulled out, th’ Apaches got it into their heads as how they finally licked us good an’ proper an’ this here was their country fur th’ takin’. Nearly was, too.

"Then th’ Rebs got up on their high horse an’ said as how iffen _Don_ Cazar warn’t with ’em, then he was agin ’em, an’ they would jus’ move in on _him_. He tol’ ’em to go ahead an’ try. An’ seem’ as how they was only one company hereabouts—Howard’s Rangers—they didn’t try. That’s when Johnny Shannon had his big bust-up with his pa an’—"

"His father!" Drew could not help that exclamation.

"Wal, _Don_ Cazar ain’t Johnny’s real pa, o’ course. But he shore thinks th’ world an’ all of Johnny, raising him up from a li’l cub. Johnny warn’t more’n four o’ thereabouts when _Don_ Cazar went back to Texas an’ got him. _Don_ Cazar’s been like a pa to Johnny since, an’ a mighty good one, too. But when th’ Rangers was round here in ’62 Johnny—he had a big row an’ run off to join ’em. Jus’ a half-growed kid, not big ’nough to raise a good brush o’ hair on his chin yet. When th’ Yankee boys from Californy came marchin’ in an’ th’ Rebs had to skedaddle—Johnny, he went with ’em. Didn’t see Johnny round here agin till last fall when he came ridin’ in lookin’ mighty beat out an’ down in th’ mouth. But when th’ Union men came, they was thinkin’ th’ same ’bout _Don_ Cazar. Wanted him to jump right in an’ swim ’longside o’ them. But he said as how th’ safety of his people was what was important. He was fightin’ Apaches an’ holdin’ th’ land, an’ that was what meant th’ most to his thinkin’. Then the Yankees did a lot of fancy cussin’ out ’bout him, trying to make out that he was a Reb’ cause Johnny lit off with th’ Southerners.

"Till they began to discover nothin’ much goes on round here lessen _Don_ Cazar has a finger in th’ pot. An’ they had to swaller a lotta them hot an’ hasty words—stuck heavy in quite a few craws, I reckon." Fenner grinned. "Only, th’ _Don_, he’s got agin him now a big list of little men who’d like to be big chiefs. Every once in a while they gits together an’ makes war talk. Never quite got up guts ’nough to paint their faces an’ hit th’ trail, not yet. But did somebody like Bayliss look like he was beginnin’ to make things move, then he’d have a lotta willin’ hands to help him shove. Up to now Johnny’s been their best bet at gittin’ th’ Range into trouble."

Drew turned his head to look Fenner in the eye. "Now you think we are!" He did not know why he uttered that as a challenge; the words just came out that way.

"Not any more’n any of us wot can be drawed into a fight in town. You keep away from Bayliss. He can’t come huntin’ you without tippin’ his hand so wide he’d never be able to play agin. Hey, here comes somebody poundin’ leather so hard he’s gonna beat it right intuh th’ ground!" Fenner pulled up Tar, flung up his hand to signal the wagons to a halt.

Dust rolled in a cloud with two or three riders at its center. They were pushing the pace all right. Drew jerked his carbine from its saddle boot, saw Anse beat him to that action by a scant second or two. But the newcomers were already drawing rein, bringing their foam-lathered horses to a pawing stop. A buckskin-clad man mounted on a powerful grulla gelding faced Fenner, his whole tense body and snapping eyes backing the demand he made:

"Where’s Johnny?"

"Back at town, Rennie, at Doc’s. He ain’t bad. Got him a head crease wot knocked him silly for a bit. Doc says a day o’ two in bed and then he kin come home."

"How did it happen?" That second question was as sharp as the first.

"Nobody’s got it straight outta him yet. Army patrol picked him up on th’ road close to town—looked like he’d been footin’ it quite a spell. An’ by that time he didn’t know wot he was doin’. Nye got him to Doc’s an’ they put him to bed. He ain’t said much, ’cept Kitchell jumped him down Long Canyon way——"

"Kitchell!" Hunt Rennie repeated the name and nodded. "But ... Long Canyon ..." There was a shade of puzzlement in his voice. "All right, carry on, Crow. I’ll try to get back to the Stronghold before you pull south—if Johnny’s all right. Maybe I can bring him back with me."

The grulla made what was close to a standing leap into a gallop and Rennie flashed along the line of wagons in the opposite direction toward Tubacca. Fenner signaled once more and the train began the slower trip southward.

Drew sat watching the dust arise again as the trio of riders pounded away. He could no longer make out individual riders, just the rising dust. Rennie on his way to Johnny Shannon ... What had Fenner said-"li’l cub ... warn’t more ’n four." Drew Rennie at four—hard to sort out one very early memory from another. There had been that time Uncle Murray had caught him down at the creek, making paper boats. How could a child that young know one kind of paper from another? But Hunt Rennie’s son was judged to have torn up a letter with deliberate malice, not just taken paper found conveniently on the veranda. Was he four then, or even younger? But he could remember the punishment very vividly. And the time he’d run off to see the circus come into town, he and Shelly ... Cousin Jeff, Cousin Merry, they had tried to beg him off from Grandfather’s punishment that time, not that they had succeeded. Drew Rennie at four, at six, at twelve, at sixteen—riding out at night with Castleman’s Company, weaving a path south through enemy-occupied territory to join General Morgan—few of those would-be cavalrymen over twenty-one. Yes, he could remember for Drew Rennie all the way back.

"Hey, you plannin’ to claim this here range?" Anse’s horse trotted up, and Drew was suddenly aware that the trailer of the last wagon had already pulled past him. He tightened rein, and the well-trained horse broke into a canter.

"Not hardly." He tried to meet Anse’s attempt at humor halfway. "Don’t look too promisin’."

"Lissen here"—Anse rode so close their spurs were near to hitting—"you sure you got hold of th’ right end of th’ runnin’ iron now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, ’bout Shannon. You heard what Fenner said—Rennie’s like a pa to him. An’ maybe ..." His voice died away.

"And maybe that’s that? He has my place, and it’s really his now?" Drew asked bleakly. "Could be."

Yes, it could well be that this was a good time to bow out. Maybe he should not have ridden out of Tubacca at all. Maybe he should have cut out of the game yesterday.... Or never come down into the valley weeks ago ... or left Red Springs.... Those "maybes" stretched as far back and as neatly in line as the railroad tracks they had been talking about earlier, one slipping smoothly into another as if cast in one strong string of doubts. Just as he had had that moment of disappointment the first time he had seen Hunt Rennie, so he felt that identical void now, only twice as wide and deep.

What had he expected, anyway? Some kind of instant recognition on his father’s part? That all the welcoming would be on the other side, breaking right through the barrier he had been building for years? His feelings were so illogical he could have laughed at them, only he had no laughter left. He had not tried to open the door, so why did he care that it remained firmly shut?

"Did you ever think about California, Anse? Sounds like a place a man would like to see."

He was conscious that the Texan’s horse quickened pace, only to be reined in again.

"You thinkin’ about cuttin’ out? Yesterday——"

"Yesterday——" Drew tried to think back to how he had felt yesterday about Topham’s warning and how he himself had held the absurd belief that if _Don_ Cazar was going to be in trouble, Drew himself wanted to be there. That was yesterday. But still he pointed his horse south—to the place where Hunt Rennie would return, bringing Johnny Shannon.

The Kentuckian fell back on the old "wait and see." He had learned long since that time took care of a lot of worries. Now he made himself grin at Anse.

"Was worryin’ about wet feet before my boots were in the river again," he confessed.

"Don’t let it git to be no habit," the Texan warned. "You try ridin’ _with_ th’ bumps awhile, not agin them!"

"Agreed." Drew urged his horse on toward the front of the train where they wouldn’t have to breathe the dust.

"... m’ cousin, Anson Kirby ..." Drew made, the introduction to Bartolomé Rivas. The wagons were forted up outside the Stronghold, a second square, smaller but almost as easily defended as the adobe walls. In two or three days the train would pull out again, starting the long trip down into Sonora.

Rivas surveyed Anse none too amicably, his gaze going from man to horse and its gear, then back to the Texan once more.

"You are Tejano," he said flatly. "From the Neusca——"

Anse showed no surpise at being so accurately identified.

"Been bush poppin’," he agreed, smiling.

"Not much cattle here," Rivas returned.

"Run hosses in th’ San Sabe ’fore th’ war." Anse’s tone was offhand, he might have been discussing the weather.

"_Don_ Cazar decides," Bartolomé said. "There is work at the corrals, but he will decide."

"Fair enough," Anse agreed. When Bartolome had moved out of hearing, he added for Drew’s benefit:

"I think it’d be ’no’ if that hombre had th’ sayin’. He plumb don’t like my style."

"But Rennie does need men—guards for the wagon trains, riders——"

Anse shrugged as he off-saddled. "Will he want one as got into a brawl about his third day in town? Anyway, maybe I’ve a day or so to breathe full before he tells me to roll m’ bed again, if he’s goin’ to."

During the next three days Drew made a new discovery. Just as he had fallen into an easy, working rhythm with Anse back in the army—so that on occasion their thoughts and actions matched without the need for speech—now they combined operations in the corrals. Drew’s bare and painfully acquired competence with the rope was paired to the Texan’s range training, while Anse’s cruder and faster methods of "toppin’ a wild one" were smoothed by Drew’s more patient gentling process. Both of them were so absorbed by what they were doing that Tubacca and what might be going on there had no more immediate meaning than the words in the books which had ridden to the Stronghold in Drew’s saddlebags.

In the late afternoon of the third day the Kentuckian was walking a long-legged bay on a lead when León climbed to the top pole of the corral.

"The _patrón_ comes," he announced.

Drew faced about. Two riders escorted at hardly more than a fast walk a buckboard in which were two other men. Drew caught a glimpse of a white bandage under the brim of the passenger’s hat and knew that Johnny Shannon was coming home.

"Anse!" Drew raised a hand, suddenly knowing that his fingers were moving in the old scout signal of trouble ahead.

The Texan came across the corral. Drew’s bay snorted, took a dance step or two to the right as if it had picked up sudden tension from the men.

"What’s up?" Anse pushed back his hat, turned up a corner of his neckerchief, and swabbed the lower half of his sweating face.

"Rennie’s back."

Drew watched León hurry to take the buckboard reins, watched Hunt Rennie give a hand to Johnny. Then he saw Shannon jerk away from that aid, walking stiffly toward Casa Grande while Rennie stood for an instant looking after the younger man before following him.

Croaker tossed his head so high his limber ear bobbed in the murky air. He brayed mournfully. Anse glanced at the mule’s long melancholy face.

"That’s th’ way you think it’s gonna be, Croaker? Well, maybe so ... maybe so."

10

"This waitin’—" Anse sat cross-legged on the bunk next to Drew’s, his thumb spinning the rowel of one spur. "I never did take kindly to waitin’. Is he or ain’t he gonna sign me on?"

Drew, lying flat, stared up at the muslin-covered ceiling which years of dust had turned to yellow-brown. "You ought to be used to it by now—waitin’, I mean. We had us plenty of it in the army."

"Only that was sorta different, not kinda personal like this here. We was sittin’ round on our heels then, waitin’ for some general to make up his mind as to where he was gonna throw some lead fast. This is waitin’ to know if _we_’re goin’ to be throwed—out!"

"I heard California——" Drew began again.

"You’ve sure taken a shine to Californy lately," Anse commented. Under his fingers the rowel whirred. "At least you talk about it enough." He sounded irritated. "Looky here, Drew, if that’s the way you really feel, why don’t you go? I’m sayin’ you don’t feel that way, not by a long sight."

What if Drew answered with the exact truth, that he did not know how he felt?

Nye came in, trailed by three of the other Rennie riders.

"Johnny’s got him a hoss-size headache an’ maybe so a pair of burnt ears. Th’ Old Man musta lit into him hot an’ heavy, chewed him out good. I’d say they warn’t even talkin’ by th’ time they pulled up here. Seems like th’ kid got an idear to scout north, struck trace near th’ Long Canyon, rode th’ sign on his own an’ was bushwacked. Guess whoever did it thought Johnny was wolf meat, jus’ took his hoss an’ left him there. You gotta give th’ kid credit for havin’ it in him. He kept on goin’ after he came to some——Walked till that patrol picked him up. I’d say he sure had him a run of pure solid luck! There wasn’t much pawin’ an’ bellerin’ left in him when Muller’s boys brought him to town. Been gittin’ a little of it back, though, seems like. But maybe this here will learn him a little hoss sense—"

"It was Kitchell’s men who shot him?" León wanted to know.

"Could be. Warn’t no Apaches, that’s for certain. No Injun would have jus’ shot him down an’ not made sure he was crow bait. Sure a fool thing to do, ridin’ there alone. Anyway, th’ Old Man’ll stick him into bed here, an’ I’ll bet you Johnny ain’t gonna ride out anywhere without an eye on him—not for a good long while."

"Long Canyon—" Perse Donally, one of the other Anglo riders, paused in shucking his shirt to look inquiringly over his shoulder. "That sure is off th’ trail th’ kid was supposed to be followin’. How come he ever drifted that far north from th’ wells round, anyway?"

"You ask him." Nye sat down on a bunk, flipped his hat away, and lay back. "Sure feels good jus’ to stretch out a mite," he observed. "Th’ Old Man, he was movin’ like he warn’t on speakin’ terms with th’ law an’ there was a sheriff behind every rock. Usually he’s calm as a hoss trough on a mild day. Johnny gittin’ his hair cut with a slug sure shook Rennie up some, almost as much as it shook Johnny. As for th’ kid ridin’ north—well, I’d say that was some more of his tryin’ to make a real big brag. Maybe he thought he could run down Kitchell all by hisself. Which is jus’ about as straight thinkin’ as kickin’ a loaded polecat on th’ tail end. But Johnny’s always been like that. Do it now, think ’bout it later. Got him into more scrapes ’n I can count me on both hands. Hope th’ Old Man gives it to him this time, hot an’ heavy, both barrels plumb center!"

"_Sí_, it is true that Juanito looks for trouble." Chino Herrera rolled a cornshuck cigarette with precise, delicate twists of his fingers. "He is _el chivato_—the young billy goat—that one. Ready to take on _el toro_ himself and lock horns. Such a one learns from knocks, not from warning words. But he is yet a boy. Give him time."

"He’d better give himself some time," Nye announced. "Next time it may be in th’ head, not ’longside it, that he gits his lead. See you got back in one piece, you two fightin’ wildcats," Nye said, grinning at Drew and Anse. "Nothin’ like tryin’ to take on th’ army—two to one—with th’ army havin’ th’ advantage. That eye’s fadin’ good, Drew, only two colors now, ain’t it?"

Drew grunted and Nye laughed. "Bet th’ captain is as techy as a teased snake every time he thinks ’bout you two. Wanted to have you all corralled nice an’ neat out to th’ camp where he could use his hooks an’ make at least three ride mounts outta you. I’d walk soft near him for a while, or you’ll have about as much chance as hens amblin’ into a coyote powwow."

"Don’t look like they was so tough they had to sneak up on th’ dipper to take a drink, do they now?" Donally asked of the room at large.

"Don’t never judge no hoss by his coat an’ curryin’," Anse retorted.

"I don’t, son. I never do," Nye replied. "As far as I’m concerned, you’re both so wild they have to tie a foot up when they give you a haircut. Only, that sort of rep don’t go down good with th’ Old Man."

"We figured it might not," Drew agreed. Nye’s warning was only another confirmation of Drew’s fears. Topham, Nye, all the rest, had made it only too plain: no trouble on the Range and no troublemakers.

He gathered up clean underrigging, another shirt. If Rennie did order him up to the big house for firing, Drew was not going to meet him stinking of horse and sweat. In the stream back of the water corral there was a bathing place, and chilly as it was, Drew intended to take advantage of it.

"A mite cold, ain’t it?" Anse demanded from the bank as Drew splashed vigorously to offset the chill. But the Texan was shucking boots and clothing in turn.

There were a lot of shadows this close to twilight. Lamps twinkled in the Stronghold. A horse nickered from the corrals, was answered from the barn. Then a bray—Croaker sounding off. From the hills came the far-off _yip-yip-yip_ of a coyote.

"Hey!" Anse stood up knee-high in the water.

"What’s the matter?" Drew called.

"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?"

Anse was quick to the rescue. "Pa—he an’ Drew’s Pa—they weren’t too close. Drew’s Pa was town folks. He sent Drew to Kaintuck for schoolin’. Pa, he favored th’ range an’ th’ free land west—"

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 a _Coronel_ 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. _Don_ Cazar 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.

11

"Magnífico!"

Drew glanced over Shiloh’s back to the speaker. _Coronel_ Oliveri 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 _Señor_ Kirby 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? _Don_ Cazar, 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 Shiloh 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.

What if he had, though? To Johnny, Drew could loom as a threat. He might be baffled as to why the Kentuckian had not made a move to claim kinship with Hunt. How much of Rennie’s own past history was known to the people here? His escape from prison during the Mexican War was common knowledge. But, come to think of it, no one had mentioned his youthful marriage or the fact that he was a widower. Perhaps even Johnny had never heard that story, close to Hunt as he was. But Drew dared ask no questions.

He was still puzzling over the situation when he returned an hour later. Nye, Anse, and a couple of the other riders had some of the recently broken mounts out, showing them off to Oliveri. There was shouting, noise, and confusion around the corrals and Drew slipped past without pausing. He had finished with Shiloh and was on his way to the bunkhouse when Hunt Rennie hailed him.

"Drew!" An imperative wave of the hand brought him to join _Don_ Cazar and to discover Anse already there, rolling his bed. For a second or two Drew blinked—the occupation fitted in too well with their worries of the night before. But Hunt Rennie was already explaining.

"Teodoro tells me that they’ve found traces of shod horses being driven back in the canyons. This late the grass is beginning to brown, but there are still some sections where stock can be wintered. I want to know more about this. Since both of you are newcomers—" Rennie paused and then added: "Your riding away from here might appear to others that you had quit, were joining up with the mustangers on your own."

"To hunt horses?" Drew asked.

"Not wild ones."

"Sounds like trouble." Anse tied his bedroll.

"In this country we expect trouble, from any direction—including up and down!" Rennie returned. "But I find it disturbing that broken stock is being herded back there. Such maneuvers can mean only one thing—stolen animals are being gathered for a run to the border. And some of them could be army owned; a remount corral was raided just before I left town. I would not care, just now, to have any army mounts located on this Range—no matter where they were hidden or by whom. If they are there, I want to be the one to find them and return them to the proper owners. It would please certain parties to find stolen stock hereabouts—particularly army.

"Now"—he gave an order he obviously expected to be obeyed—"if you do find anything, don’t try to take over yourselves. That’s final. This is nothing to rush into just to burn powder. And above all I want no mixing it up with any army patrol riding south. Do you both understand?"

Drew nodded.

"Yes, suh," Anse replied promptly. "We jus’ git high behind an’ take care. What the mustangers got to do with this?"

"Nothing. Except they can show you the tracks, and with them you can cover a good part of the country in question. There’s been no Apache sign down there, and Running Fox will accompany you—only not so openly as to be noticed."

"You think someone may be watchin’ the Stronghold?" Drew asked as he buckled his saddlebags.

"I don’t know anything for sure. But a couple of incidents lately have suggested that someone knows a lot more about what’s going on here than I like. It would be easy enough to lie out in the hills and keep field glasses on us down here. And when a man is familiar with the general routine of a place, he can guess a sight too much and too close just by watching the comings and goings. So—you’re going to ride out within the hour and be well along before you camp tonight. We can’t waste time."

The nights were chill and the cold made them huddle turtle fashion into the upturned collars of their short riding coats and jam their hats down as far as possible on their heads. Winter breathed across the land now with the coming of dark.

They traveled at an angle, the pace set by Teodoro who led a pack mule. Somewhere out there in the dark the Pima Scout was prowling. But he had had his orders: no contact with the three travelers unless there was fear of attack. And both Anse and Drew were alert, knowing that the farther one went from the Stronghold the less one relaxed guard.