Rebel Spurs
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Andre Norton >> Rebel Spurs
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"Rode a far piece then," Fenner commented. "Me, I've been trailin' round
this here country since th' moon was two-bit size. An' I ain't set my
moccasins on all o' it yet. Thar's parts maybe even an Injun ain't seed
neither. You jus' outta th' army, son?"
Drew nodded. Apparently he could not escape that part of his past, and
there was no reason to deny it.
"Iffen you be huntin' a job--_Don_ Cazar, he's always ready to hire on
wagon guards. Any young feller what knows how to handle a gun, he's
welcome--"
"Can't leave Tubacca, at least for now. Have me a mare over in the livery
that just foaled. I'm not movin' until she's ready to travel--"
"Must be right good stock," Fenner observed. "Me, I has me a ridin' mule
as kin smell Apaches two miles off. Two, three times that thar mule saved
m' skin fur me. Got Old Tar when he turned up in a wild-hoss corral th'
mustangers set over in th' Red River country--"
"I saw him when you rode into town. Good-lookin' animal."
Crow Fenner nodded vigorously. "Shore is, shore is. _Don_ Cazar, he's
partial to good stock--favors Tar, too. Th' _Don_ has him a high-steppin'
hoss every hoss thief in this here territory'd like to run off. Bright
yaller--"
"Saw that one, too. Unusual colorin' all right."
"He put a white stud--white as milk--to run with some light buckskin mares
back 'fore th' war. First colt out of that thar breedin' was that Oro
hoss. Never got 'nother like him; he's special. Shows his heels good, too.
They's gonna race him out on th' flats tomorrow if anyone is fool 'nough
to say as he has a hoss as can beat Oro. Thar's always some greenhorn as
thinks he has--"
"Oh?" Drew wondered aloud. The black-and-gold horse was beautiful and
plainly of good breeding. That he was also a runner was not out of the
question. But that Oro could best Gray Eagle-Ariel stock on the track,
Drew doubted. There were unbroken records set on eastern tracks by horses
in Shiloh's direct blood line. And the local talent that had been matched
against Oro in the past had probably not been much competition. The
Kentuckian began to speculate about a match between the gray stallion and
the horse foaled on the Arizona range.
"Yep, we'll see some race, does anyone turn up with a hoss t' match Oro."
One of the shirted Indians rose to his feet. With rifle sloped over
forearm, he padded into the dark. Fenner's relaxed posture tensed into
alert readiness. His head turned, his attitude now one of listening
concentration. Drew strained to see or hear what lay beyond. But the noise
from the plaza and torchlight made a barrier for eye and ear.
Fenner's rifle barrel dropped an inch or so; he stood easy again. Drew
heard a jingle of metal, the creak of saddle leather, the pound of shod
hoofs.
"Soldiers!" Fenner sniffed. "Wonder what they's doin', hittin' town now.
Wal, that ain't no hair off m' skull. Me, I'm gonna git Tar his treat.
Promised him some time back he could have a bait o' oats--oats an' salt,
an' jus' a smidgen o' corn cake. That thar mule likes t' favor his
stomach. Kells, he ought t' have them vittles put together right 'bout
now. This mare o' yourn what's so special, young feller.... Me, I'd like
t' see a hoss what's got to be took care of like she was a bang-up lady!"
He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. A mule head, attached to a
rangy mule body, weaved forward to follow dog-at-heel fashion behind the
scout.
A squad of blue coats was riding in--an officer and six men. They threaded
their way to the cantina where the officer dismounted and went inside. The
troopers continued to sit their saddles and regard the scene about them
wistfully.
"Looks like a duty patrol," Fenner remarked. "Maybe Cap'n Bayliss. He's
gittin' some biggety idear as how it's up t' him t' police this here town.
Does he start t' crow too loud, _Don_ Cazar or Reese Topham'll cut his
spurs. Maybe he sets up th' war shield an' does th' shoutin' back thar in
front o' all them soldier boys. In this town he ain't no gold-lace
general!"
"Troops and the town not friendly?" Drew asked.
"Th' soldiers--they ain't no trouble. Some o' 'em have their heads screwed
on straight an' know what they's doin' or tryin' t' do. But a lot o' them
officers now--they come out here wi' biggety idears 'bout how t' handle
Injuns, thinkin' they knows all thar's t' be knowed 'bout fightin'--an'
them never facin' up to a Comanche in war paint, let alone huntin'
'Paches. 'Paches, they know this here country like it was part o' their
own bodies--can say 'Howdy-an'-how's-all-th'-folks, bub?' t' every lizard
an' snake in th' rocks. Ain't no army gonna pull 'em out an' make 'em
fight white-man style.
"_Don_ Cazar--he goes huntin' 'em when they've come botherin' him an' does
it right. But he knows you think Injun, you live Injun, you eat Injun, you
smell Injun when you do. They don't leave no more trail than an ant
steppin' high, 'less they want you should foller them into a nice ambush
as they has all figgered out. Put Greyfeather an' his Pimas on 'em an'
then leg it till your belly's near meetin' your backbone an' you is all
one big tired ache. Iffen you kin drink sand an' keep on footin' it over
red-hot rocks when you is nigh t' a bag o' bones, then maybe--jus'
maybe--you kin jump an Apache. Comanches, now, an' Cheyenne an' Kiowa an'
Sioux ride out to storm at you--guns an' arrows all shootin'--wantin' to
count coup on a man by hittin' him personal. But th' 'Pache ain't wastin'
hisself that way. Nope--git behind a rock an' ambush ... put th' whole
hell-fired country t' work fur them. That's how th' 'Pache does his
fightin'. An' th' spit-an'-polish officers what come from eastward--they's
got t' larn that. Only sometimes they ain't good at larnin', an' then they
gits larned--good an' proper. Hey, Kells!"
They were at the stable and Fenner lifted a hand, palm out, in greeting to
the liveryman. "Here's Ole Tar wantin' his special grub--"
Drew went on to Shiloh's stall. Reese Topham, the Spaniard _Don_ Lorenzo
who had been in the cantina last night, the stout Mexican Bartolome, and
_Don_ Cazar himself were all there before him.
"Here he is now." Reese Topham waved a hand at Drew. "This is Mister
Kirby, from Texas."
"You have a fine horse there, Kirby--the mare, too. Eastern stock, I would
judge, perhaps Kentucky breeding?" Rennie asked.
Drew was taut inside. To say the wrong thing, to admit the line of that
breeding, might be a bad slip. Yet he could only evade, not lie directly.
"Yes, Kentucky." He answered the first words his father had ever addressed
to him.
"And the line?"
To be too evasive would invite suspicion. However, the Gray Eagle get was
in more than one Kentucky stable.
"Eclipse...." Drew set back the pedigree several equine generations.
Shiloh tossed his head, looked over his shoulder at Drew, who entered the
stall and began quieting the stallion with hands drawn gently over the
back and up the arch of the neck.
"The mare also?" _Don_ Cazar continued.
"Yes." The Kentuckian's answer sounded curt in his own ears, but he could
not help it.
"This Eclipse, _amigo_," _Don_ Lorenzo turned to Rennie for
enlightenment--"he was a notable horse?"
"_Si_, of the Messenger line. But a gray of that breeding--" _Don_ Cazar's
forefinger ran nail point along his lower lip. "Ariel blood, perhaps?"
Drew busied himself adjusting Shiloh's hackamore. This was getting close.
Hunt Rennie had lived in Kentucky over a year once. He had visited Red
Springs many times before he had dared to court Alexander Mattock's
daughter and been forbidden the place. His visits to the stable must have
familiarized him with the Gray Eagle-Ariel strain bred there. On the other
hand, horses of the same combination were the pride of several other
families living around Lexington.
"A racing line of high blood," _Don_ Lorenzo said thoughtfully. "_Si_,
this one has the pride, the appearance. You have raced him, _senor_?" he
asked Drew with formal courtesy.
"Not on any real track, _senor_. During the war there were no races."
"He wasn't a cavalry mount?" _Don_ Cazar looked surprised.
"No, suh. Too young for that. He was foaled on April sixth in sixty-two.
That's why they called him Shiloh."
There was a moment of silence, broken by a hail from the door.
"You there--Rennie!"
Drew saw the involuntary spasm of _Don_ Cazar's lips, the shadow of an
expression which might mean he anticipated a distasteful scene to come.
But the quirk disappeared as he turned to face the man in the blue
uniform.
"Captain Bayliss." It was acknowledgment rather than a greeting, delivered
in a cool tone.
"I want to see you, Rennie!" The officer stamped forward a step or so, to
stand in the full light of the first lantern. He was of medium height, and
his blue blouse had been cut by a good tailor, though now it was worn. He
was a good-looking man, though jowly about the mouth, above which a
closely cropped mustache bristled. His color was high under a pink skin
which in this hot country must burn painfully. And there was the permanent
stamp of uncertain temper in the lines about his prominent eyes.
4
"So, you see me, Bayliss," _Don_ Cazar returned evenly. "There is some
trouble?"
Bartolome shifted from one foot to the other, his spurs ringing. _Don_
Lorenzo's expression was one of withdrawal, but on the round countenance
of the Mexican was open dislike.
The sun-reddened skin flushed darker. "All right, Rennie!" the captain
exploded. "If you want it straight, that's the way you're going to get it!
You've been hiring Rebs again!"
Once before Drew had seen explosive anger curbed visibly by a man who knew
the folly of losing control over his emotions. It had been on a hilltop
back in Tennessee, with the storm clouds of January overhead. General
Bedford Forrest, watching men driven to the limit by necessity and his own
orders, had looked just that way when he had rounded on Drew, bearing news
of yet another break-through by the Federals. Now it was this Anglo
wearing Spanish dress and standing in a dim stable, reining temper to meet
the open hostility of the captain.
"Captain Bayliss." The words sounded as remote as if the speaker bestrode
some peak of the Chiricahuas to address a pygmy in a canyon below. "I know
of no law which states that I may not employ whom I choose on my own land.
If a man does his job and makes no trouble, his past does not matter. I am
as ready to fire a former Union soldier as I am a Confederate--"
"I tell you again: I'm not going to have Rebs around here passing on
information to Kitchell!"
"And _I_ say once again, Captain, that men who ride for me do not in
addition ride for Kitchell."
"_Si_--!" Bartolome's face was as flushed as Bayliss' now. "We do not help
those _bandidos_. Do they not also raid us? Two weeks ago Francisco Perez,
his horse comes in with blood on the saddle. We ride out and find
him--shot, dragged with the rope. That is not Apache trick, that, but the
work of Kitchell and his snakes!"
"Peace, _amigo_." _Don_ Cazar's raised finger silenced his man. "Bartolome
is right, Bayliss. Kitchell is beginning to nibble at the Range. He has
not many sources of supply left. Soon he will either have to cross the
border to stay or make some reckless raid which will give us a chance at
him."
"These damned Rebs around here will keep him going! You can't tell me they
don't back him every chance they get. And I'm warning you, Rennie, if you
hire any man you can't answer for, he's going to the stockade and you'll
hear about it from the army!"
"And you also listen, Captain. I will not be dictated to, and the army had
best understand that. I do not want Kitchell in this country any more than
you do. He has made a boast of being Confederate leading what he terms
Mounted Irregulars. But to my knowledge he never held a commission from
the South, and he is nothing but an outlaw trading on the unsettled state
of the territory. That is recognized by every decent man in Arizona. And
that covers those you call 'Rebels' as well as former Union men."
Bayliss was silent for a long second, and then he jerked his hat farther
down on his peeling forehead. "You've had notice, Rennie, that's all I
have to say. I'm going to clear all the Rebs out of this section. Then we
will be able to get at Kitchell, and the army will settle him for good and
all!"
"Bayliss!" The captain had half turned, but _Don_ Cazar's call halted him.
"Don't you try harassing any of my riders. They mind their business and
will not make any trouble as long as they are left in peace. If there are
any problems in town, _Don_ Lorenzo Sierra, here, is the alcalde and they
must be referred to him."
The captain favored Rennie with a last glare and was gone. Tobe Kells
spoke first.
"That one's chewin' th' bit an' gittin' ready to hump under th' saddle.
This business of tryin' to run out th' Rebs, it'll cause smokin'!"
"He has no right to give such an order," _Don_ Cazar was beginning when
the alcalde interrupted:
"_Compadre_, for a man such as that your talk of rights means nothing. He
is eaten by the need to impress his will here, and that will bring
trouble. I do not like what I have heard, no, I do not like it at all."
"You know what may be really eating at him this time, Hunt?" Topham spoke
from where he was leaning against the wall of Shadow's box stall. "Johnny
was throwing his weight around again last night. Had a set-to in the Jacks
with a trooper. Unless the kid quits trying to fight the war over again
every time he sees an army blouse--or until he stops pouring whisky down
him every time he hits town--there may be shooting trouble. There're some
equal hot-heads in Bayliss' camp, and if Johnny goes up against one of
them, a scuffle could become a battle."
"Yeah, an' that warn't all Johnny was doin' last night." Kells shifted his
tobacco cud from one cheek to the other. "Iffen Kirby here hadn't been to
hand, Johnny would have skinned th' Trinfan kid with his quirt--jus' 'cause
he dropped his purse outside th' Jacks an' th' kid followed him to give it
back. Johnny's meaner than a drunk Injun these days. That's Bible-swear
truth, Rennie."
"To lose a war makes a man bitter," _Don_ Cazar said slowly. "Johnny was
far too young when he ran away to join Howard. And after that defeat at
Glorieta, the retreat to Texas was pure hell with the fires roaring. It
seems to have done something to the boy--inside."
"Johnny wasn't the only boy at Glorieta. From what I've heard most of them
weren't old enough to grow a good whisker crop." Topham's voice had lost
its detached note. "And he sure wasn't the only Confederate to surrender.
Hunt, he's got to learn that losing a war doesn't mean that a man has lost
the rest of his life. But the way he's been acting these past months,
Johnny might just lose it. Bayliss' tongue is hanging out a yard or more
he's panting so hard to get back at you. That captain has heady ambitions
under his hat, maybe like setting up here as a tinpot governor or
something like. If he can discredit you, well, he probably thinks he's got
a chance to rake in the full pot, and it's a big one. Get Johnny back on
the Range, Hunt--put him to work, hard. Sweat that sour temper and whisky
out of him. He used to be a promising youngster; now he's turning bronco
fast. All he seems to have learned in the war is how to use those guns of
his to lord it over anyone he believes he can push around. And someday
he'll try to push the wrong man--"
_Don_ Cazar was staring ahead of him now at Drew and Shiloh. But Drew knew
that Hunt Rennie was not seeing either man or horse, but a mental picture
which was not too pleasing.
"He's just a boy." Rennie did not utter that as an excuse; rather he said
it as if to reassure himself. Then his eyes really focused on Drew, and he
changed the subject abruptly.
"Kirby, when the train comes in we sometimes set up a race or two. Any
thought of trying your colt against some of the local champions?"
"Oro perhaps?" Drew counter-questioned.
Rennie laughed. "Oh, so you've been talking, Fenner?"
The scout came away from where Tar was still very audibly munching his
treat. "Didn't know as how th' younker had him a runnin' hoss, _Don_
Cazar." He inspected Shiloh critically. "But that thar sure looks a lotta
hoss. 'Course maybe he ain't used t' runnin' out here whar th' ground
ain't made all nice an' easy fur his feet. But I dunno, I dunno at all."
"Anyway he'll give Oro stiffer competition than he's had in the last two
races. Unless that Lieutenant Spath up at the camp tries again with that
long-legged black of his," Topham added. "What about it, Kirby? You
willing to match Shiloh?"
"He's green, but, yes, I'll do it."
Drew's motives were mixed. His pride in the colt had been pushing him
toward such a trial ever since he had heard Fenner speak of Oro. In
addition, as the owner of a noted horse, he would take a place in this
community, establish his identity as Drew Kirby. And in some way he could
not define, this put him, at least in his own mind, on an equal footing
with _Don_ Cazar.
But by the next morning a few doubts troubled him as he tightened saddle
cinches on the stallion. Shiloh's only races so far had been impromptu
matches along the trail. Though the colt had been consistently the victor,
none of his rivals had been in his class. And if Oro's speed was as
striking as his coloring, the Range stud would prove a formidable
opponent.
"Walk him up and down here by the corral." The Kentuckian handed the reins
to Callie. "Got something I have to do."
Drew went directly to the Four Jacks. This time the cantina was filled,
with a double row of the thirsty demanding attention at the bar. But
Topham was seated at a table with _Don_ Lorenzo and Zack Cahill of the
stage line. The Kentuckian went over to them.
"You have come to back your horse, _senor_?" _Don_ Lorenzo smiled up at
Drew. There were piles of coins on the table as Cahill listed bets for the
men crowding around.
"Yes, suh." Drew spun down two double eagles. "What're the odds?"
"Started six to one for Oro," Topham told him. "Coasted down after a few
of the boys had a look at Shiloh. Can give you four to one now. Anything
else we can do for you?"
Drew dropped his voice. "Do you have a safe here?"
Topham's eyebrows climbed. "Do you foresee a deposit or a withdrawal?"
"Deposit. I want to ride light today."
"Then I'll admit possession of a safe, such as it is. _Don_ Lorenzo, _por
favor_, will you act as banker?" He beckoned Drew after him into a small
back room which was in sharp contrast to the main part of the Four Jacks.
On one wall was a fanned display of old daggers and swords which dated a
century or so back to the Spanish colonial days. A bookcase crammed with
tightly squeezed volumes provided a resting place for pieces of native
pottery bearing grotesque animal designs. On the far wall were strips of
brightly colored woven materials flanking a huge closed cupboard, a very
old one, Drew thought. Its paneled front was carved with deeply incised
patterns centering about a shield bearing arms. Only the battered desk and
an attendant chair with a laced rawhide seat were of the frontier.
Topham took a chained key from the pocket of his fancy vest and went to
fit it into a lock concealed in the carved foliage of the cupboard. The
shield split down the middle, revealing shelves of metal boxes and packets
of papers. Drew unfastened his money belt and handed it over. As he was
tucking his shirt in his belt once more the gambler nodded at the
cupboard.
"This is about as near a bank as we boast in Tubacca. Cahill has a
strongbox at the stage station, and Stein some kind of a lockup at his
store--that's the total for the town. We haven't grown to the size for a
real banking establishment--"
"Hey, Reese, th' Old Man about--?"
Shannon was in the doorway. In the full light of day he looked younger.
Drew was puzzled. That strange animosity which had flashed between them
last night--why had he felt it? There was nothing like that emotion now.
But as Johnny Shannon's gaze flitted from Topham to the Kentuckian, Drew
was once more aware that, whatever he might outwardly seem, Johnny Shannon
was no boy. Behind that disarmingly youthful facade was another person
altogether.
"Kirby, ain't it?" Shannon smiled. "Understand I got outta line th' other
night ... stepped on a lotta toes." That gaze flickered for the merest
instant to the Colts at the Kentuckian's belt. "I sure had me a real
snootful an' I guess I was jus' fightin' th' war all over again. No hard
feelin's?"
That guileless confession was very convincing on the surface. How did you
assess an emotion you did not understand yourself? Drew was teased by a
fleeting memory of the past, of a time when he had faced another pair of
eyes such as those, surface eyes behind which you could see nothing. Then
he became conscious that the pause was too lengthy, and he replied with a
hurry he immediately regretted:
"No hard feelin's."
This time he was able to recognize the meaning of that quirk of Shannon's
lips. But prudence controlled the small flare of temper he felt inside
him. It did not really matter. Let Shannon think he was backing down. If
the time ever came that they did have to have a showdown, Johnny Shannon
might be the surprised one.
"You're sure a trustin' fella." Shannon's fingers hooked to the front of
the gun belt riding low on the hip. "Not askin' for no receipt or
nothin'...."
Topham laughed. "We don't forget what is due a customer, Johnny." He went
to the desk, scribbled a line on a piece of paper, and held it out to
Drew. "This should meet all contingencies, such as some patron out there
getting downright ornery and putting a couple of extra buttonholes in my
vest by the six-gun slug method."
"Heard tell as how you're fixin' to race your plug 'gainst Oro, Kirby,"
Johnny drawled. "Also as how you laid down some good round boys to back
his chance. I took me a piece of them--easy pickin's." The sneer was
plainer in his voice than it had been in his smile.
Drew's puzzlement grew. Why was Shannon leaning on him this way? Because
he had stepped in to stop the quirting of Teodoro? That was the only
reason the Kentuckian could think of.
"That's a matter of opinion." Topham was studying them both with interest.
"I'd say Oro has him some real competition at last. None of the Eclipse
blood was ever backward on the track."
"You ridin' yourself?" Shannon paid no attention to the gambler's comment.
Drew nodded. "He knows me, and I ride light--"
"Sure, I suppose you do--now." Shannon's eyes flickered again, this time to
the locked cupboard. "Heard tell--leastways Callie's been spoutin' it
around--that you was with General Forrest."
"Yes."
"You sure musta pulled outta th' war better'n th' rest of us poor Rebs.
Got you a couple of blooded hosses an' a good heavy money belt. A sight
more luck than th' rest of us had--"
"Don't include yourself in the empty-pocket brigade, Johnny," Topham
rapped out. "I don't see you going without eating money, drinking money
either, more's a pity. And if you're really looking for Rennie now, you'll
find him down at the course."
Shannon's smile was gone. He straightened away from the door frame which
had been supporting his shoulders. "Thanks a lot, Reese." He left with the
same abruptness as he had from the stable alley.
"So you're riding yourself." Topham ignored the departure. "Leon Rivas,
Bartolome's son, will be up on Oro; he always rides for Rennie. He's
younger than you, but I'd say"--the gambler studied Drew's lithe body
critically--"you're about matched in weight. I'd shuck that gun belt,
though, and anything else you can. And good luck, Kirby. You'll need all
of it you can muster."
An hour later Drew followed Topham's advice, leaving gun belt, carbine,
and everything else he could unload in Callie's keeping before he swung up
on Shiloh. The big colt was nervous, tending to dance sideways, tossing
his head high. Drew concentrated on the business at hand, striving to
forget the crowd opening up to let him through, shouting encouragement or
disparagement. Ahead was the appointed track, a beaten stretch of earth,
part of the old road leading to the mines. The Kentuckian talked to Shiloh
as they went, keeping up a stream of words to firm the bond between horse
and rider.
There was a knot of men surrounding the golden horse, and as his rider
mounted, Oro put on a good show, rearing to paw the air with his forefeet
as if he wished nothing better than to meet his gray rival in an impromptu
boxing match. Then he nodded his head vigorously, acknowledging the shouts
from his enthusiastic supporters. Beside that magnificent blaze of color
Shiloh was drab, a shadow about to be put to flight by the sun.
They were to break at a starting shot, head to the big tree which made an
excellent landmark in the flat valley, rounding its patch of shade before
returning to the starting point. Drew brought Shiloh, still prancing and
playing with his bit, up beside Oro. The slim boy on the golden horse shot
the Kentuckian a shoulder-side look and grinned, raising his quirt in
salute as Drew nodded and smiled back.
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