Rebel Spurs
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14 Andre Norton
THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CLEVELAND AND NEW YORK
_Published by_ The World Publishing Company
2231 West 110th Street, Cleveland 2, Ohio
_Published simultaneously in Canada by_ Nelson, Foster & Scott Ltd.
_First Edition_
Copyright (C) 1962 by Andre Norton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
without written permission from the publisher, except for brief passages
included in a review appearing in a newspaper or magazine. Printed in the
United States of America.
Project Gutenberg Transcriber's Copyright Note:
Project Gutenberg has not been able to find a United States copyright
renewal. To the best of our knowledge, this work has fallen to the public
domain.
_For_ HENDRY PEART _and_ CARROLL COLLINS _who share my interest in "The
West."_
[Illustration: Bookcover Illustration]
_Jacket painting by Peter Burchard_
REBEL SPURS
ANDRE NORTON
(front dusk jacket)
In 1866, only men uprooted by war had reason to ride into Tubacca,
Arizona, a nondescript town as shattered and anonymous as the veterans
drifting through it. So when Drew Rennie, newly discharged from Forrest's
Confederate scouts, arrived leading everything he owned behind him--his
thoroughbred stud Shiloh, a mare about to foal, and a mule--he knew his
business would not be questioned. To anyone in Tubacca there could be only
one extraordinary thing about Drew, and that he could not reveal: his
name, Rennie.
Drew had come west from Kentucky to find a father he had thought dead
until the year before. Kinship with a man like Hunt Rennie, however--the
legendary Don Cazar, owner of a matchless range and prize stallions--was
not a claim to be made quickly or lightly. Posing as Drew Kirby the young
veteran contrived to get himself and his friend Anse hired as corral hands
at Rennie's Range, but he was hardly prepared for the suspicion and danger
which stood between him and his father. As hotheaded as his father, Drew
was ready to move on to California--until the day all proof of his Rennie
name was stolen from him, and his unwarranted arrest for horse-thieving
brought on the accusations of the one man whose trust he needed.
Andre Norton's _Ride Proud, Rebel!_ dramatically portrayed the last year
of the Confederacy, when brave men like Drew Rennie met defeat with honor.
In this sequel, Drew's struggle to establish his identity and begin life
anew in a raw, unsettled land reflects the courage of thousands of
rootless men set adrift by the Civil War.
BY ANDRE NORTON
The Defiant Agents
Ride Proud, Rebel!
Storm Over Warlock
Galactic Derelict
The Time Traders
Star Born
Yankee Privateer
The Stars Are Ours!
EDITED BY ANDRE NORTON
Space Pioneers
Space Service
1
Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land.
Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. The
crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in
the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red and
yellow, violet--colors he had hardly been aware existed back in the cool
green, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky.
So this was Tubacca! The rider shifted his weight in the saddle and gazed
about him with watchful interest. Back in '59 this had been a flourishing
town, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest. The mines in the
hills behind producing wealth, the fact that it was a watering place on
two cross-country routes--the one from Tucson down into Sonora of Old
Mexico, the other into California--had all fed its growth.
Then the war.... The withdrawal of the army, the invasion of Sibley's
Confederate forces which had reached this far in the persons of Howard's
Arizona Rangers--and most of all the raiding, vicious, deadly, and
continual, by Apaches and outlaws--had blasted Tubacca. Now, in the fall of
1866, it was a third of what it had been, with a ragged fringe of
dilapidated adobes crumbling back into the soil. Only this heart core was
still alive in the dusk.
Smell, a myriad of smells, some to tickle a flat stomach, others to
wrinkle the nose. Under the rider the big stud moved, tossed his head,
drawing the young man's attention from the town back to his own immediate
concerns. The animal he rode, the two he led were, at first glance, far
more noticeable than the dusty rider himself.
His saddle was cinched about the barrel of a big gray colt, one that could
not have been more than five years old but showed enough power and
breeding to attract attention in any horse-conscious community. Here was a
thoroughbred of the same blood which had pounded race tracks in Virginia
and in Kentucky to best all comers. Even now, after weeks on the trail,
with a day's burden of alkali dust grimed into his coat, the stud was a
beautiful thing. And his match was the mare on the lead rope, plainly a
lady of family, perhaps of the same line, since her coat was also silver.
She crowded closer, nickered plaintively.
She was answered by an anxious bray from the fourth member of the party.
The mule bearing the trail pack was in ludicrous contrast to his own
aristocratic companions. His long head, with one entirely limp and
flopping ear, was grotesquely ugly, the carcass beneath the pack a bone
rack, all sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master could
have proven, were deceiving.
"Soooo--" The rider's voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but it
was tuned to the soothing croon of a practiced horse trainer. "Sooo--lady,
just a little farther now, girl...."
From the one-story building on the rider's right a man emerged. He paused
to light a long Mexican cigarillo, and as he held the match to let the
sulfur burn away, his eyes fell upon the stallion. A casual interest
tightened into open appreciation as he stepped from under the
porch-overhang into the street.
"That is some horse, sir." His voice was that of an educated gentleman.
The lantern at the end of the porch picked out the fine ruffled linen of
his shirt, a vest with a painted design of fighting cocks, and the wink of
gold buttons. The rather extravagant color of his clothing matched well
with the town.
"I think so." The answer was short and yet not discourteous.
Again the mare voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to the
gentleman. "There is a livery stable here, suh?" Unconsciously he reverted
in turn to the rather formal speech pattern of another place and time.
The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from stallion to
mare. "Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe Kells owns it. He's a
tolerable vet, too. She's near her time, ain't she?"
"Yes." The rider raised one finger to the straight wide brim of his
low-crowned black hat. He was already turning his mount when the townsman
added:
"No hotel here, stranger. But the Four Jacks serves a pretty good meal and
keeps a couple of beds for overnighters. You're welcome back when you've
settled the little lady. She Virginia stock?"
"Kentucky," the rider answered, and then his lips tightened into a
compressed line. Was it a mistake to admit even that much? He would have
to watch every word he said in this town. He tugged gently at the lead
rope and walked Shiloh ahead at a pace which did not urge Shadow to any
great effort. The mule, Croaker, fell in behind her so that they were
strung out in the familiar pattern which had been theirs clear from Texas.
Minutes later her owner was rubbing down the fretful Shadow, murmuring the
soothing words to quiet her. The lean, gray-haired man who had ushered
them into the stable stood eyeing the mare's distended sides.
"I'd say, young fellow, you didn't git her here a mite too soon, no,
siree. She's due right quick. Carryin' a blood foal, I'm thinkin'--"
"Yes. How soon? Tonight?"
Tobe Kells made a quick examination. The mare, after a first nervous
start, stood easy under his sure and gentle hands. "Late, maybe. First
foal?"
"Yes." Her owner hesitated and then added, "You give me a hand with her?"
"You bet, son. She's a pretty thing, an' she's been a far piece, I'd say.
Now you looky here, boy--you sure look like you could take some curryin'
an' corn fodder under your belt too. You git over to th' Four Jacks.
Topham's got him a Chinee cookin' there who serves up th' best danged grub
in this here town. Fill up your belly an' take some ease. Then if we do
have this little lady gittin' us up tonight, you'll be ready for it. I'll
see t' th' stud an' th' mule. That colt's not a wild one." Kells surveyed
Shiloh knowingly. "No, I seed he was gentle-trained when you come in." He
ran his hand down Shiloh's shoulder, touched the brand. "Spur R? That
ain't no outfit I heard tell of before."
"From Eastern ... Texas--" That much was true. All three animals had been
given the brand in the small Texas town where the wagon train had
assembled. And perhaps this was the time when he should begin building up
the background one Drew Kirby must present to Tubacca, Arizona Territory.
"All right, I'll go eat." He picked up his saddlebags. "You'll call me
if----"
"Sure, son. Say, I don't rightly know your name...."
"Drew Kirby."
"Wal, sure, Kirby, Tobe Kells is a man o' his word. Iffen there's any
reason to think you'll be needed, I'll send Callie along for you. Callie!"
At Kells' hail a boy swung down the loft ladder. He was wiry thin, with a
thick mop of sun-bleached hair and a flashing grin. At the sight of Shiloh
and Shadow he whistled.
"Now ain't they th' purtiest things?" he inquired of the stable at large.
"'Bout th' best stock we've had here since th' last time _Don_ Cazar
brought in a couple o' hissen. Where'll I put your plunder, mister?" He
was already loosing Croaker's pack. "You be stayin' over to th' Jacks?"
Drew glanced up at the haymow from which Callie had just descended. "Any
reason why I can't bunk up there?" he asked Kells.
"None 'tall, Kirby, none 'tall. Know you want to be handy like. Stow that
there gear up above, Callie, an' don't you drop nothin'. Rest yourself
easy, son. These here hosses is goin' to be treated jus' like th' good
stuff they is."
"Croaker, also." Drew stopped by the mule, patted the long nose, gave a
flip to the limp ear. "He's good stuff, too--served in the cavalry...."
Kells studied the young man by the mule. Cavalry saddle on the stud, two
Colt pistols belted high and butt forward, and that military cord on his
hat--army boots, too. The liveryman knew the signs. This was not the first
veteran to drift into Tubacca; he wouldn't be the last either. Seems like
half of both them armies back east didn't want to go home an' sit down
peaceful like now that they was through wi' shootin' at each other. No,
siree, a right big herd o' 'em was trailin' out here. An' he thought he
could put name to the color of coat this young'un had had on his back,
too. Only askin' more than a man volunteered to tell, that warn't neither
manners nor wise.
"He gits th' best, too, Kirby." Kells shifted a well-chewed tobacco cud
from one cheek to the other.
He could trust Kells, Drew thought. A little of his concern over Shadow
eased. He shouldered the saddlebags and made his way back down the alley,
beginning to see the merit in the liveryman's suggestions. Food--and a
bath! What he wouldn't give for a bath! Hay to sleep on was fine; he had
had far worse beds during the past four years. But a hot bath to be
followed by a meal which was not the jerky, corn meal, bitter coffee of
trail cooking! His pace quickened into a trot but slackened again as he
neared the Four Jacks and remembered all the precautions he must take in
Tubacca.
In the big room of the cantina oil lamps made yellow pools of light. The
man in the painted vest was seated at a table laying out cards in a
complicated pattern of a solitaire game. And at one side a round-faced
Mexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across one
plump knee, now and then plucking absent-mindedly at a single string as he
stared raptly into space. A third man stood behind the bar polishing thick
glasses.
"Greetings!" As Drew stood blinking just within the doorway the card
player rose. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, a little too thin for his
height. Deep lines in his clean-shaven face bracketed his wide mouth. His
curly hair was a silvery blond, and he had dark, deeply set eyes. "I'm
Reese Topham, owner of this oasis," he introduced himself.
"Drew Kirby." He must remember that always--he was Drew Kirby, a Texan
schooled with kinfolk in Kentucky, who served in the war under Forrest and
was now drifting west, as were countless other rootless Confederate
veterans. Actually the story was close enough to the truth. And he had had
months on the trail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, then on to Tucson, to
study up on any small invented details. He was Drew Kirby, Texan, not Drew
Rennie of Red Springs, Kentucky.
"For a man just off the trail, Kirby, the Four Jacks does have a few of
the delights of civilization. A bath...." One of Topham's dark eyebrows,
so in contrast to his silvery hair, slid up inquiringly, and he grinned at
Drew's involuntary but emphatic nod. "One of nature's gifts to our fair
city is the hot spring. Hamilcar!" His hand met table top in a sharp slap.
The Mexican jerked fully awake and looked around. From the back of the
cantina emerged a middle-aged Negro.
"Yes, Mistuh Reese, suh?"
"Customer for you, Hamilcar. I would judge he wants the full treatment.
This, Mister Kirby, is the best barber, valet, and general aid to comfort
in town, the sultan of our bath. Hamilcar, Mister Kirby would like to
remove the layers of dust he has managed to pick up. Good luck to you
both!"
Drew found himself laughing as he followed Hamilcar to the rear of the
building.
Topham had reason to be proud of his bath, Drew admitted some time later.
A natural hot spring might be the base of the luxury, but man's labor had
piped the water into stone-slab tubs and provided soap and towels. To sit
and soak was a delight he had forgotten. He shampooed his unkempt head
vigorously and allowed himself to forget all worries, wallowing in the
sheer joy of being really clean again.
Hamilcar had produced a clean shirt and drawers from the saddlebags, even
managing to work up a shadow of shine on the scuffed cavalry boots, and
had beat the worst of the trail dust from the rest of the traveler's
clothing. Drew had re-dressed except for his gun belt when he heard a
voice call from the next cubicle.
"Ham--Ham! You git yourself in here, 'fore I skin that black hide--"
"Johnny!" Topham's voice cut through the other's thickened slur. "You soak
that rot-gut out of you, and mind your tongue while you do it!"
"Sure, sure, Reese--" The voice was pitched lower this time, but to Drew
the tone was more mocking than conciliatory. Drunk or sober, that stranger
did not hold very kindly thoughts of Topham. But that was none of the
Kentuckian's business.
"Yore hat, suh." Hamilcar brought in the well-brushed headgear, much more
respectable looking than it had been an hour ago. The cord on it
glistened. Army issue--brave gold bullion--made for a general's wearing.
Drew straightened it, remembering....
Sergeant Rennie of the Scouts, in from an independent foray into
enemy-held Tennessee, reporting to the Old Man himself--General Bedford
Forrest. And Forrest saying:
"We don't give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just be
granted a birthday present without any one gittin' too excited about how
military that is." Then he had jerked the cord off his own hat and given
it to Drew. It was something big to remember when you were only nineteen
and had been soldiering three years, three years with a dogged army that
refused to be beaten. That hat cord, the spurs on his boots, they were all
he had brought home from war--save a tough body and a mind he hoped was as
hard.
"Mighty pretty hat trimmin', that, suh," Hamilcar admired.
"Mighty big man wore it once." Drew was still half in the past. "What do I
owe you more'n the thanks of a mighty tired man you've turned out brand
new again?" He smiled and was suddenly all boy.
"Foah bits, suh. An' it was a pleasure to do fo' a gentleman. It truly
was. Come agin, suh--come, agin!"
Drew went down the corridor, his spurs answering with a chiming ring each
time his heels met planking. Worn at Chapultepec by a Mexican officer,
they had been claimed as spoils of war in '47 by a Texas Ranger. And in
'61 the Ranger's son, Anson Kirby, had jingled off in them to another war.
Then Kirby had disappeared during that last scout in Tennessee, vanishing
into nowhere when he fell wounded from the saddle, smashing into a
bushwhackers' hideout.
On a Sunday in May of '65, back in Gainesville, when Forrest's men had
finally accepted surrender and the deadness of defeat, a Union trooper had
worn those spurs into church. And Boyd Barrett had sold his horse the same
day to buy back those silver bits because he knew what they meant to his
cousin Drew. Now here Drew was, half the continent away from Gainesville
and Tennessee, wearing Anse's spurs and half of Anse's name--to find a
father he had not known was still alive, until last year.
The Kentuckian was sure of only one thing right now, he was not going to
enter a town or a stretch of country where Hunt Rennie was _the_ big man,
and claim to be Rennie's unknown son. Maybe later he could come to a
decision about his action. But first he wanted to be sure. There might
well be no place for a Drew Rennie in Hunt Rennie's present life. They
were total strangers and perhaps it must be left that way.
There was no reason for him to claim the kinship. He was independent. Drew
Kirby had a mule and two good horses, maybe three by tomorrow. Aunt
Marianna had insisted that he accept part of the Mattock estate, even
though his Kentucky grandfather had left him penniless. He'd made his
choice without hesitation: the colt Shiloh, the mare Shadow, and she bred
to Storm Cloud for what should be a prize foal. His aunt had made him take
more--gold in his money belt, enough to give him a start in the west. He
was his own man, not Rennie's son, unless he chose....
Two more lamps had been lighted in the cantina. Drew sat down at a table.
There was a swish of full skirts, and he looked up at a girl. She smiled
as if she liked what she saw of this brown-faced stranger with quiet,
disciplined features and eyes older than his years.
"You like, _senor_ ... tequila ... whiskee ... food?"
"Food, _senorita_. You see a most hungry man."
She laughed and then frowned anxiously. "Ah, but, _senor_, this is a time
when the cupboard is, as you would say, bare! When the wagons come--then
what a difference! Now, tortillas, frijoles, maybe some fruit ... sweet
for the tongue, like wine in the throat. Perhaps an egg--"
"To me that is a feast." Drew fell into the formal speech which seemed
natural here. "You see one who has done his own trail cooking too long."
"Ah--_el pobrete_--poor man! Surely there will be an egg!" She was gone and
Drew began covertly to study the other men in the room.
In any western town the cantina, or saloon, was the meeting place for
masculine society. Even if Hunt Rennie did not appear bodily in the Four
Jacks tonight, Drew could pick up information about his father merely by
keeping open ears. As far away as Santa Fe he had heard of Rennie's Range
and _Don_ Cazar (the name the Mexicans had given its owner, Hunt Rennie).
Escaped from a Mexican prison in 1847, believing his wife and the son he
had never seen to be dead, Hunt Rennie had gone west. In contrast to the
tragedy of his personal life, whatever Rennie had turned his hand to in
the new territory had prospered. A prospector he had grub-staked, found
the Oro Cruz, one of the richest mines in the Tubacca hills. Rennie owned
two freighting lines, one carrying goods to California, the other up from
Sonora. And his headquarters in the fertile Santa Cruz Valley was a ranch
which was also a fort, a fort even the Apaches avoided after they had
suffered two overwhelming defeats there.
That was Rennie's Range--cultivated fields, fruit orchards, _manadas_ of
fine horses. _Don_ Cazar supplied Tucson and the army posts with
vegetables and superb hams. He had organized a matchless company of Pima
Indian Scouts after the army pulled out in '61, had fought Apaches, but
had sided with neither Union nor Confederate forces. During the war years
he had more or less withdrawn within the borders of the Range, offering
refuge to settlers and miners fleeing Indian attacks. _Don_ Cazar was a
legend now, and a man did not quickly claim kinship with a legend.
"Want a room, Kirby?" Topham paused beside his table.
"No. I have to stay close to the mare."
"Yes. I can understand that. Kells is good with horses, so you needn't
worry. Ever raced that colt of yours?"
"Not officially." Drew smiled. There was that lieutenant with the supply
wagons. The man hadn't talked so loudly about Johnny Rebs after Shiloh
showed his heels to the roan the soldiers had bragged up.
"This is a sporting town when the wagons come in, and they're due
tomorrow. Johnny Shannon just rode in to report. Might be some racing. You
aim to stay on in Tubacca?"
"Have to until Shadow can trail again. How's the prospect for a job?"
"With cattle--horses--teaming?"
"Horses, I guess."
"Well, _Don_ Cazar--Rennie--runs the best _manadas_. You might hit him for
work. He'll be riding in to meet the wagons. Carmencita, did you bring all
that was left of the supplies?" Topham's quizzical eyebrows lifted in
greeting to the waitress's loaded tray. "I'd say, young man, that you are
facing a full-time job now, getting all that inside of you."
Drew ate steadily, consuming eggs and beans, tortillas, and fruit. Topham
joined three men at the next table, substantial town citizens, Drew
judged. The owner of the cantina raised his glass.
"Gentlemen, I give you another successful trading trip!"
"Saw Johnny ride in," one of the men returned. "Kid seems to be settlin'
down, ain't he? That ought to be good news for Rennie."
"One believes in reformations when they are proven by time, _Senor_
Cahill," the man wearing rich but somber Spanish clothing replied.
"It sure must go hard with a man to have his son turn out a wild one,"
commented the third.
Drew's cup was at his lips, but he did not drink. Whose son? Rennie's?
"No son by blood, that much comfort _Don_ Cazar has. But foster ties are
also strong. And the boy is still very young--"
"A rattler with only one button on the tail carries as much poison as a
ten-button one. Rennie ought to cut losses and give that kid the boot. The
way he's going he could involve Hunt in a real mess," Cahill said.
"You are _Don_ Cazar's good friend, _Don_ Reese, his _compadre_ of many
years. Can you not do something?"
"_Don_ Lorenzo, all men have blind spots. And Johnny Shannon is Rennie's.
Bob Shannon helped free Hunt out of Mex prison in the war and was killed
doing it. Soon as Hunt set up here he sent for the boy and tried to give
him a father."
"It is a great pity he has no child of his own blood. I have seen him
stand here in Tubacca giving toys and candy to the little ones. Yet he has
only this wild one under his roof, and perhaps that Juanito will break his
heart in the end...."
Drew put down his cup. It was very hard not to turn and ask questions.
Dropping some coins on the table, he rose and started back to the stable,
to the world of Shiloh and Shadow where he was unable to betray Drew
Rennie. But there was so much Drew Kirby must learn--and soon!
2
Two lighted lanterns hung from pegs along the center of the stable, and
Callie had mounted a barrel to put up a third as Drew entered. There were
the soft peaceful sounds of horses crunching fodder, hoofs rustling in
straw. Shadow turned her head and nickered as Drew came up to her box
stall. She was answered by a blowing from Shiloh, a bray out of Croaker.
"It's all right, girl--pretty lady--" Drew fondled her mane, stroked the
satin-smooth arch of neck. Callie dropped from his barrel perch.
"She sure is right purty, Mister Kirby. Mister Kells said as to tell you
he's sleepin' on a cot in th' tack room over there, should you be needin'
him." Callie pointed. "Me, I'm beddin' down in the last stall. I put your
gear up right over here, so's you can hear if she gits to movin'--"
"Thanks." Drew felt in a pocket, tossed Callie the coin his fingers found.
The boy caught the piece, his eyes round as he looked at it. "Lordy!
Thanks, Mister Kirby! You must be near as shiny as _Don_ Cazar--or Mister
Topham!"
"Shiny?"
Callie laughed. "Silver-shiny! Ain't too many men as goes round Tubacca
throwin' out good money thataway. 'Less it's ringin' down on th' bar, or
slidin' 'cross some table 'cause they found out as how they was holdin'
Jacks against some other fella's Kings. You want anything--you jus' holler,
Mister Kirby!"
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