Rebel Spurs
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Andre Norton >> Rebel Spurs
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So here he was now--just where Bayliss had promised to see him--in an army
detention cell, with no proof of identity and the circumstantial evidence
against him piling up by the minute. All they needed was some definite
proof to tie him to Kitchell and he was lost. He had to pin his hopes on
Anse--and _Don_ Cazar.
Drew ground his boot heel into the dirt floor. That was just what he had
sworn he would never do--call upon Hunt Rennie for help. Especially now,
since the troopers had discovered those army-branded horses back in the
canyon and Bayliss would try to use that against Rennie. Anse's escape had
been a short-sighted solution, Drew knew. To the captain such action only
tied the Range in deeper. The Kentuckian ran his fingers through his hair,
trying to think of something which had _not_ gone wrong.
The plank door banged open and Drew's head came up with a snap. No use
letting these Yankees think they had him worried. The lantern, feeble as
it was, picked out the stripes on the blouse of the first man, the tin
plate in the hands of the second.
Drew looked down at the plate as it was slid under the bars and across the
floor of his cell.
"Stew, Sergeant? Ain't that overfeedin'? Thought bread and water was more
the captain's style for Reb prisoners." Drew was pleased that he was able
to sound unconcerned.
"Cocky one, ain't you?" asked the man who had brought in the plate. "All
you Rebs is alike--never know when you're licked--"
"Get along, Farley, that's enough," Muller broke in.
Drew picked up the plate and forced himself to spoon up its contents. The
stuff was still warm and not too bad. After the second spoonful he
discovered that he was hungry--that much he would not have to pretend.
"Kid!"
Sergeant Muller's bulk shut most of the lantern glow out of the cell.
"You young squirts're all alike--never take no advice. But I'm gonna give
it, anyway. When th' cap'n sees you, you button your lip! He ain't one as
takes kindly to no smart talkin', 'specially not from a prisoner. As far
as he's concerned he's got you about dead to rights--hoss thievin' from th'
army."
"I'd like to know what proof he has," Drew returned sharply. "Your patrol
picked me up well away from those horses--in the mustanger camp where I was
workin'--and Captain Bayliss can't prove that's not true, either. Anyway,
what difference does it make to you, Sergeant?"
"Since you ask, I don't rightly know, kid. Maybe you was spoilin' for a
fight in th' Jacks an' did push our boys--"
"But you don't think so, Sergeant." Drew put the plate on the bunk and
stood up to approach the bars. Muller was the taller; the Kentuckian had
to raise his eyes to meet the sergeant's. The trooper's face was mostly in
the shadow, but it was plain the man did not mean him any ill.
"I got m' reasons." Muller did not make any straighter answer. "But you
think o' what th' cap'n does know about you, kid. You go ridin' 'round
with gold on you--more money than any drifter ever sees in ten years or
more. You're caught near where some stolen army stock is stashed away, an'
your partner lights out hell-for-leather, breaking through army lines. An'
we only got your story as to who you really are. I ask you--does that read
good in the lieutenant's report when th' cap'n gets it?"
"No," Drew answered. "But what do you suggest doin' about it, Sergeant?"
"Got anybody in town as will speak up for you, Kirby? Reese Topham? He did
before."
"He doesn't know any more than what he said right then. Trouble is,
Sergeant, anybody I could ask to back me up I'd have to bring out from
Kentucky--and I don't believe Captain Bayliss would wait for that."
"You work for Rennie, don't you?"
"Hunt Rennie has nothing to do with this. He didn't know those horses were
on the Range----"
"Because you put them there, Kirby?"
Muller made a lightning about-face. He snapped to attention facing the
captain.
"And what are you doing here, Sergeant?"
"Prisoner bein' fed, sir!" Muller reported stolidly.
"And there is no need for conversation. Dismissed, Sergeant!"
The captain watched Muller leave before he turned once more to Drew.
"Kirby, do you know the penalty for horse stealing in this country?" he
snapped.
"Yes."
"Then you must know just what you have to face."
"Captain ..." Drew began slowly, wanting to make his words just right.
There was no reason to let Bayliss think he could simply ride right over
his prisoner. On the other hand Muller's advice had been good; it would be
dangerous to antagonize the officer. "I had nothing to do with those
stolen horses. We found them, yes, but they were already in the canyon.
And there were two men guardin' them--up on the ridge. They must have
cleared out when your patrol rode in, but they were there the night
before."
"You saw them?"
"No, our scout did."
"What scout--that Indian who got away with your partner? I heard rumors
that Kitchell had links with bronco Apaches, but I didn't believe any
white man could stoop so low."
"That Indian"--Drew felt as if he were walking a very narrow mountain ledge
in the dark, with a drop straight down to the middle of the world on one
side--"was a Pima, one of the Stronghold scouts."
"So--Hunt Rennie _did_ know about those horses!" Bayliss pounced.
"He did not! He sent us to the mustanger camp with a message, and the Pima
rode scout for us. It's a regular order on the Range--take one of the Pimas
if you are goin' any distance from where you can fort up. You can find out
that's true easily enough." Drew was striving to keep a reasonable tone,
to find an answer which _must_ pierce through Bayliss' rancor. After all,
Bayliss could not have held his present rank and station so long and been
all hot-headed plunger.
"What was this so-important message Rennie had to have delivered to a camp
of Mex mustangers?" Bayliss bored in. Even in the lantern's restricted
light Drew could see the flush darkening the other's face.
"They are havin' trouble with a wild stud--a killer. Mr. Rennie wants him
killed, quick. He sent the two of us out to help--thought with more hands
it could be done."
"Kirby!" Bayliss' fists were on his hips, his head pushed forward from his
shoulders until his sun-peeled face was only inches away from the bars
between them. "Do I look like a stupid man, a man to be fed stories? You
ride into town on a blooded stud, with a mare of like breeding, and a belt
loaded down with gold. You give out that you served with Forrest--Forrest,
a looting guerrilla and a murdering butcher! You've heard of Fort Pillow,
Kirby? That's what decent men remember when anyone says 'Forrest' in their
hearing! Only you can't even prove you were one of that gang of raiders,
either, can you? Now I'll tell you just who and what you are.
"You're one of Kitchell's scavengers, come into town with gold for
supplies and a chance to contact the people you want to meet. I've known
for a long time that Topham, Rennie, and probably a dozen other so-called
citizens of that miserable outlaws' roost are backing Kitchell. Now here's
a chance to prove it!"
"Not through me, you don't," Drew cut in. "I'm just what I said I was from
the beginnin', Captain. And you can't prove anything different."
"I don't have to prove it; you've convicted yourself, Kirby. You can't
account for the gold you're carrying. And, if you rode with Forrest,
where's your parole? You know you were told to carry it. I can deal with
you just as any horse thief is dealt with. Why, I'll wager you can't even
prove ownership of those horses you brought with you. Where're your sale
papers? On the other hand, Kirby, if you do give us the evidence we need
against Kitchell and those who are helping him, then the court might be
moved to leniency. How old are you? Nineteen--twenty--? Rather young to
hang."
"Captain, I can prove everything I've told you. In Kentucky I have kin.
They can----"
"Kentucky!" Bayliss snorted. "Kentucky is far away, Kirby. Do you expect
us to sit around waiting for some mythical kin of yours to appear from
Kentucky with another set of lies to open this door?" He pounded with one
fist against the cell portal. "I'm a reasonable man, Kirby, and I'm not
asking too much--you know that. What're Kitchell, Rennie, Topham to you
that you're willing to face a noose for them?"
"Kitchell I know nothin' about--except what I've heard and that's not
good." Drew sat down on the bunk, partly because the chill which had crept
down his back had poured into his legs and they felt oddly weak under him.
"Reese Topham and Mr. Rennie--as far as I'm concerned they're honest men. I
don't think, Captain, that you can prove I'm not, either."
"There is such a thing as over-confidence, Kirby, and it always comes to
the fore in your kind!" Bayliss returned. "But after you do some serious
thinking I believe you'll begin to see that this is one time you're not
going to be able to lie or ride yourself out!"
He left without a backward glance. Drew picked up the plate, pushed the
spoon back and forth through the congealing mess left on it. He could not
choke down another mouthful. Just how much power did Bayliss have? Could
he try a civilian by court-martial and get away with it? And to whom could
Drew possibly appeal? Topham? Rennie? Apparently Bayliss wanted them
enough to suggest Drew testify against them. Did he actually believe Drew
guilty, or had that been a subtle invitation to perjury? The Kentuckian
set the plate on the floor and got up again to make a minute study of the
cell. His thought now was that maybe his only chance would be to break
out.
But his first appraisal of the detention quarters had been the right one.
Given a pickax and a shovel, and an uninterrupted period of, say, a week,
he might be able to tunnel under one of the log walls. But otherwise he
could not see any other way of getting free--save to walk out through the
cell door. Drew threw himself on the bunk and tried to think logically and
clearly, but his tired body won over his mind and he slept.
"Hey, you! Kirby, wake up! There's someone here to see you!"
Drew reached for a Colt which was no longer under his pillow and then
rolled over and sat up groggily, rubbing one hand across his smarting
eyes. The lantern light had given way to dusty sunshine, one bar of which
now caught him straight across the face.
"All right, Kirby, suppose you tell me what this is all about!"
Drew's head came up, his hand fell. Hunt Rennie and Lieutenant Spath stood
side by side beyond the bars. Or rather, not Hunt Rennie, but _Don_ Cazar
was there--for the owner of the Range was wearing the formal Spanish dress
in which Drew had first seen him. And his expression was one of
withdrawal.
"They think that I'm one of Kitchell's men and that I had something to do
with those stolen horses we found on the Range." He blurted it out badly.
"They also showed me about six hundred dollars in gold found on you,"
Rennie returned. "I thought you needed a job. You told Topham that, didn't
you?"
"Yes, suh." Drew's bewilderment grew stronger. Hunt Rennie sounded as if
he believed part of Bayliss' accusation!
"That money's rightfully mine," Drew added.
"You can prove it?"
"Sure. Back in Kentucky...." Drew paused. Back-in-Kentucky proof would not
help him here and now in Arizona.
"Kentucky?" Rennie's withdrawal appeared to increase by a score of miles.
"I understood you were from Texas."
"Told you, Rennie," the lieutenant said, "his story doesn't hold together
at all. A couple of really good questions and it falls right apart."
"I came here from Texas." Drew took stiff hold of himself. He was walking
that narrow ledge again, and with a wind ready to push him off into a
bottomless gulf. "Rode with a wagon train as far as Santa Fe--from there on
with military supply wagons to Tucson. I was in Kentucky after the war;
went home with a boy from my scout company...."
"Who gave you two blooded horses and a belt full of gold for a good-by
present?" scoffed Spath.
"_Have_ you any proof of what you say closer than Kentucky?" Rennie
ignored the lieutenant's aside. "I can account for your time on the Range,
or most of it. But you'll have to answer for this money and where you came
from originally. What about your surrender parole? I know you did have
papers for the horses--Callie saw them. Produce those...."
"I can't." Drew's hands balled into fists where they rested on his knees.
"Sure you can't--you never had any!" Spath returned.
"I had them. I don't have them now." What was the use of trying to tell
Rennie about his suspicions of Shannon? And if Johnny had destroyed the
papers as well he might have, Drew could never make them believe him,
anyway.
"Kirby, this is serious!" said Rennie. "You ride in from nowhere with two
fine horses wearing a brand you say is your own. You have more money than
any drifter ever carries. You claim to be a Texan, and yet now you say all
the proof of your identity is in Kentucky. And--you are not Anson Kirby's
cousin, are you?" That last question was shot out so suddenly that Drew
answered before he thought.
"No."
"I thought so." Hunt Rennie nodded. "Education is a polisher, but I don't
think three or four years' schooling would have made a Texas range rider
ask for sherry over whisky--except to experiment with an exotic beverage.
There were other things, too, which did not fit with the Kirby background
once Anson turned up. Just who are you?"
Drew shrugged. "That doesn't matter now--as the lieutenant and Captain
Bayliss have pointed out--if my only proof is in Kentucky and out of
reach."
"I suppose you have heard of telegraphs?" Rennie's sarcasm was cold.
"Communication with Kentucky is not so impossible as you appear to think.
You give me a name and address--or names and addresses--and I'll do the
rest. All you have to do is substantiate background and your army service,
proving no possible contact with Kitchell. Then the captain will be forced
to admit a mistake."
Give Hunt Rennie the name of Cousin Meredith Barrett, of Aunt Marianna's
husband, Major Forbes--the addresses of Red Springs or Oak Hill? Drew could
not while there was a chance that Anse might find the papers or make
Johnny Shannon admit taking them. The Kentuckian could _not_ tell Hunt
Rennie who he was here and now.
"I want to talk to Anse," he said out of his own thoughts. "I've got to
talk to Anse!"
"He's gone." Rennie's two words did not make sense at first. When they
did, Drew jumped up and caught at the bars.
"Gone? Where?"
"Cleared out--got clean away." Again Spath supplied the information. "Or so
they tell us. He went back to the Stronghold after he broke through our
lines. But when a patrol rode down to get him, he was gone."
"Why?" Drew asked. "Why pick him up?"
"Why? Because he's in this, too!" Spath retorted. "Probably rode straight
to Kitchell's hideout. Now, Mr. Rennie, time's up. The captain authorized
this visit because he thought you might just get something out of the
prisoner. Well, you did: an admission he's been passing under a false
name. We know _what_ he is--a renegade horse thief."
Drew was no longer completely aware of either man. But, as Rennie turned
away, he broke through the mist of confusion which seemed to be enclosing
him more tightly than the walls of the cell.
"Shannon. Where's Shannon?"
Hunt Rennie's head swung around. "What about Johnny?" he demanded.
"He took my papers--out of my belt!" This was probably the worst thing he
could do, to accuse Johnny Shannon without proof.
"What papers, and why should he want them?" If Rennie had been remote
before, now he was as chill as the Texas northers Anse had joked about.
"The parole, the horse papers, some letters...."
"You saw him take them? You know why he should want them?"
Drew shook his head once. He could not answer the second question now.
"Then how do you know Johnny took them?"
How did he know? Drew could give no sane reason for his conviction that it
had been Johnny's fingers which had looted the pocket of papers and
stuffed leaves and grass in their place.
"You'll have to do better than that, kid!" Spath laughed. "You must have
known Shannon was gone, too. By the time he's back from Mexico he won't
need to prove that's a lie."
Drew disregarded the lieutenant's comments--Rennie was the one who
mattered. And in that moment the Kentuckian knew that he had made a fatal
mistake. Why hadn't he agreed to telegraph Kentucky? Now there was no
hope. As far as _Don_ Cazar was concerned, one Drew Kirby could be written
off the list. Drew had made an enemy of the very person he most wanted to
convince. The Kentuckian swung around and walked to the one small, barred
window through which he could see the sun. He walked blindly, trying not
to hear those spurred boots moving out of the door ... going away....
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Three good strides one way, four another to measure the cell. Morning sun,
gone by noon, daylight outside the window becoming dusk in turn. They fed
him army rations, delivered under guard. And the guard never spoke. There
was no use asking questions, and Drew had none left to ask, anyway.
Except, by the morning of the second day after Rennie's visit, his wonder
grew. Why was Bayliss delaying a formal charge against him? This wait
could mean that the captain was not finding it so easy to prove he really
did have a "renegade horse thief" in custody. But Drew knew he must pin no
hopes on a thread that fine.
What had happened to Anse? And Shannon--gone to Mexico? He must have ridden
back with the _Coronel_. Drew could expect nothing more from Rennie, or
Topham. The Trinfans? Spath had marched them back, too, along with his
prisoner, but the lieutenant had not had them under arrest. The mustangers
were well known in this district and could prove their reason for being
where they were found. And Kitchell had raided one of their corrals last
season, so they had no possible tie with the elusive outlaw. Probably by
now the Trinfans had returned to their hunt for the Pinto.
No, there was no use thinking that anyone was going to get him out of
this--no one but himself, and he had bungled badly so far. Drew, his body
tired with pacing the small cell, flung himself down on the bunk and
listened to the sounds of the camp. He had pretty well worked out the
routine by those sounds. The camp itself was a makeshift affair. Its core,
of which this cell was a part, was an old ranch building. There were tents
and a few lean-tos, on a plateau bounded on the east by a ravine, on the
west by a creek bottom. Huts of stone, rawhide, and planks served as
officers' quarters. In fact it was no more a fort than the bivouacs he had
known during the war. Unfortunately this room was the most substantial
part.
If he could only get out, and pick up his horses, then perhaps he could
head for Mexico. There was a war on down there; a soldier could find an
anonymous refuge in a foreign army. Shelby's whole Confederate command had
crossed the Rio Grande to do just that. That part was easy. To get out of
here--that was what he could not accomplish.
Two men always came together when they fed him, and they didn't open the
cell door, but just pushed the plate through. A sentry was on duty
outside. Drew could beat time to the sound of those footfalls day and
night. And suppose he did get free of the cell; he would have to have a
horse, supplies, arms....
Drew rolled over on the cot and buried his face on his folded arms. He
might as well try to get out of here by using will power alone to turn
locks! They left the lantern burning all night to keep a light on him, and
the sentry looked in the peephole every time he passed.
The Kentuckian did not know just when it was that he became conscious of
the noise overhead. Lizards--maybe even rats--could move about the beams,
hidden by the age-browned manta strips. But surely this was too late in
the season for a lizard to be so lively by night when the temperature
dropped with the rapidity of a weight plunging earth-ward. And rats
aloft....
Drew did not change his position on the bunk, but his body tensed. No rat
would stay in one place, gnawing with such purpose and concentration at a
spot in the darkest corner of the cell roof. Anse? How or why the Texan
could be at work there, Drew did not know. But that there was a stealthy
attempt being made to reach him from above he was now sure.
His teeth closed on his wrist as he lay listening, to that scratching
above, to the regular advance and retreat of the sentry. He heard the man
pause by the door and knew he was under inspection. Well, let the Yankee
look! He would see his prisoner peacefully sleeping.
Now the trooper was moving on, the noise above became sharper. There was a
slight crackle. The linen roofing sagged under a burden, and Drew caught
his breath in a gasp. Miraculously the yellow cloth supported the object--a
bulge as big as a saddlebag. A portion of the roof which had given way?
The scratching, which had stilled, began again. Then the bulge was gone,
pulled away from above. Dust sprinkled down from the disturbed manta. In
the next instant Drew moved.
Using his hands on either side of his body, he raked up the straw which
filled the box bunk. In a swift moment, timed to the sentry's passing to
the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor,
slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too
good--it certainly would not fool any inspection within the room. But in
the lantern light and this far from the door, the improvised dummy might
satisfy the glance of the sentry for some precious seconds.
Drew was across the cell, flattened against the wall under the still
quivering strip of material. More bulges appeared and disappeared,
fragments fallen and retrieved. Then a sharp point pierced downward, the
tip of a knife slitting the tough stuff. A slash, and the manta peeled
back against the wall of the cell.
"_Senor_--?" It was so faint a whisper Drew hardly caught it.
"Yes!" He looked up with desperate eagerness into what he had hoped to
see--the dark splotch of a hole.
A rawhide lariat smoothly braided, oiled into supple silkiness, dangled
through. Drew got his hands on it, pulled it back against the wall as the
sentry returned. He held his breath during that pause beside the spy hole,
a pause which lengthened alarmingly. Then his body jerked in answer to a
sound a half second before he realized what manner of sound. The sentry
had sneezed. He sniffled, too, loudly; then he went on to complete his
beat. The blanket and the straw--they had worked!
Drew pulled at the lariat, was answered by a return jerk. He jumped and
began to climb. Then, with a wrench he was through the hole, other hands
helping to pull.
"Come--pronto!" The hands were pushing, urging. He wriggled forward.
Teodoro Trinfan! But why?
There was no time to ask; Drew could only obey directions. They made a
worm's progress along the full length of the old ranch building, and
dropped the lariat for a ladder to the ground. They crossed the small part
of the camp near the ravine with the same caution they had used on the
roof.
"_Senor_..." Teodoro's lips were at Drew's ear as the boy pressed against
him in a thin cover of shadow. "Left--a big stone--put your hands on
it--swing about and down."
Drew had to take that on blind trust. He had no idea what kind of a drop
waited below, and only by firm will power did he follow orders. But his
boot soles met a solid surface. Then he was caught about the waist and
Hilario's voice whispered to him.
"_Senor_, you stand--so." Hands fumbled about him, looping him with a
supporting lariat. "Now--we go! Your hand, _senor_." Drew's left hand was
caught in a tight grip which pulled him to the right, face to the wall. So
secured, he inched along what he knew must be the face of the ravine, his
toes on some small ledge midway between lip and foot.
Somehow the three of them reached ground level, their diagonal course of
descent putting some distance between them and the camp. In spite of the
cold of the night, Drew was wet with sweat as they threaded through heady
sage brush. Now came the scent of horses, the sound of a hoof stamped
impatiently on gravel.
"Trinfan?"
Topham! Here?
"_Si._"
At Hilario's hissed assent, a figure detached itself from the utter black
of the bushes and moved forward into a sliver of moonlight.
"You got him?"
"I'm here, if that's what you mean!" Drew answered for himself.
"And you'll be gone, soon," the gambler replied. "But there's one thing I
have to know, Kirby. Were you telling the truth to Rennie--do you believe
Johnny took your papers?"
What had that to do with the matter at hand? Drew wondered. But from the
urgency of the demand he knew it did mean a great deal to Topham.
"Yes, I'm sure. But I can't prove it--unless I find them with him. He may
have destroyed them already." Drew put into words the black foreboding
which had ridden him for days.
"Why? What do they mean to him?"
Evasions and lies had gotten him into this mess; now he would see what
stark truth would do.
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