Rebel Spurs
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Andre Norton >> Rebel Spurs
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"Shiloh!" Drew wadded the towel in his fist and pitched it across the
room. "Shiloh!"
Leon must have read something of Drew's blazing anger in his face, for the
Mexican's mouth went a little slack and his hand came up in an involuntary
gesture as if to ward off a blow.
"It is a good plan!" His boy's voice was thin in protest against Drew's
expression.
"It is a harebrained, dangerous scheme," began Drew; then he switched to a
question. "Did Johnny Shannon suggest using Shiloh for bait, or was that
your idea?"
"_Senor_ Juanito--he said one must have a good horse, a fighter. But such a
horse would not be hurt. We would wait with rifles and shoot the pinto
quickly before he attacked. There would be no harm to Shiloh, none at all.
_Senor_ Juanito said that. Only a trick to get the _diablo_ where we could
shoot. Maybe--" Leon's eyes dropped, a flush rose slowly on his brown
cheeks--"maybe it was very foolish. But when _Senor_ Juanito told it, it
sounded well."
"Did he tell you to ask me about it?"
The flush darkened. "He did not say so, _senor_. But one would not do such
a thing without permission. Also, you should be one of the hunters, no?
How else could we go?"
"Well, there won't be any huntin' of that kind, Leon. Trinfan knows what
he's doin', and I don't think that pinto is goin' to be runnin' loose--or
alive--much longer."
Drew pulled a clean shirt over his head. What kind of game was Johnny
Shannon trying to play? Apparently he had almost talked Leon into using
Shiloh as bait in this fool stunt. Had he expected the kid to take the
horse without Drew's knowledge? Or for some reason had he wanted Leon to
spill this? A trick to get Shiloh out of the Stronghold? But why?
He buckled on his gun belt, settled the twin holsters comfortably.
Shannon--what and why, he repeated silently. Nothing sorted out in his
mind. Drew only felt a prickle of uneasiness which began between his
shoulder blades and ran a chill down his spine, as if rifle sights were on
him.
But Shannon did not return to the Stronghold, and Drew was kept busy at
the corrals from dawn to dusk. In a month of hard work it was easy to
forget what might only be fancies.
There was an invigorating crispness in the air, and the dun gelding the
Kentuckian rode savored the breeze as a desert dweller savors water. Drew
was indulgent with his mount's skittishness as they pounded along at the
tail of the horse herd bound for Tubacca.
From a rocky point well before them there was a flash of light. Jared Nye,
on Drew's left, took off his hat and waved a wide-armed signal to answer
Greyfeather's mirror. Two of the Pimas were scouting ahead on this two-day
drive, and the Anglo riders were keeping the herd to a trot. Apaches,
Kitchell, even _bandidos_ from over the border, could be sniffing about
the Range, eyeing its riches, ready to pick up anything left unprotected.
The men rode with their rifles free of the boot, fastened by a loop of
rawhide to the saddle horn, the old Texas precaution which allowed for
instant action. And at each halt the six-shooter Colts' loading was
checked.
Nye swerved, sending a lagger on with a sharp crack of quirt in the air.
He pulled up to match Drew's sobered trot.
"That's the last bad stretch; now it'll be downhill an' green fields all
th' way." Nye nodded at the narrow opening between two hills lying ahead.
"Glad to get this band in on all four legs an' runnin' easy."
"You expected trouble?"
"Kid, in this here country you don't expect nothin' else but. Last time we
brought hosses up th' trail they jumped us four, five miles back--right
close to where we saw that pile of bones this mornin'. 'Fore he knew what
hit us Jim Berry was face down an' never got up again. An' th' Old Man
took him a crease 'crost th' ribs that made him bleed like a stuck pig.
Got him patched up an' into town; then he keeled over when he tried to git
down off his hoss an' was in bed a week."
"Apaches?"
"Naw, we figured it was Kitchell. Couldn't prove it though, an' after that
th' Old Man made a rule we take Pimas every drive. Ain't nothin' able to
surprise them. I never had no use for Injuns, but these here are peaceful
cusses--iffen they don't smell an Apache. With them ridin' point we're sure
slidin' th' groove. Me, I'll be glad to hit town. I'd shore like to keep
th' barkeep busier than a beaver buildin' hisself a new dam. Though with
th' Old Man off reppin' for th' law down along the border and needin'
hands back on the Range, we swallows down th' dust nice an' easy an' takes
it slow. Anyway, this far from payday I kin count up mosta m' roll without
takin' it outta m' pocket."
"This Kitchell...think it's true that some of the ranchers are really
helpin' him?"
"Don't know. Might be he's tryin' to play th' deuce against th' whole
deck. Lessen he lives on th' kind of whisky as would make a rabbit up an'
spit in a grizzly's eye hole, he's got somethin'--or someone--to back him.
Me...were th' Old Man poundin' th' hills flat lookin' for me, I'd crawl
th' nearest bronc an' make myself as scarce as a snake's two ears." Nye
shrugged. "Kitchell's got some powerful reason for squattin' out in th'
brush playin' cat-eyed with most of th' territory. Maybe so there're some
as will sit in on his side, but they've sure got their jaws in a sling an'
ain't bawlin' about it none. 'Course lotsa people were red-hot Rebs back
in '61 till they saw as how white men fightin' each other jus' naturally
gave th' Apaches an' some of th' border riffraff idears 'bout takin' over.
But mosta us now ain't wavin' no flag. Iffen Kitchell has got him some
diehards backin' him--" Nye shrugged again. "Git 'long there, you
knock-kneed, goat-headed wagon-loafer!" He pushed on to haze another
slacker.
They were dusty and dry when they dropped the corral gate in place and
watched the horses mill around. Drew headed for Kells' stable. Shadow
nickered a greeting and turned around as if to purposefully edge her
daughter forward for his inspection.
"Pretty, ma'am," he told her. "Very pretty. She's goin' to be as fine a
lady as her ma--I'm willin' to swear to that."
The filly lipped Drew's fingers experimentally and then snorted and did a
frisky little dance with her tiny hoofs rustling in the straw. Kells had
been as good as his promise, Drew noted. Mother and child had had expert
attention, and Shadow's coat had been groomed to a glossy silk; her black
mane and tail were rippling satin ribbons.
"Gonna take 'em back to th' Range with you, Mister Kirby?" Callie came
down from the loft.
"Yes. I'll need a cart and driver though. We'll have to give the foal a
lift. Know anyone for hire, Callie?"
"I'll ask around. Have any trouble comin' up?"
"No. Greyfeather and Runnin' Fox were scoutin' for us."
"Stage was jumped yesterday on th' Sonora road," Callie volunteered. "One
men got him a bullet in th' shoulder, but they got away clean. It was
Kitchell, th' driver thought. Captain Bayliss took out a patrol right
away. You plannin' on goin' back with Kitchell out?"
"Don't know," Drew replied absently. Better leave that decision to Nye; he
knew the country and the situation. "You ask about the cart, Callie, but
don't make it definite. Have to see how things turn out."
Drew started for the Four Jacks to meet Nye. Back here in Tubacca he was
conscious how much he had allowed his personal affairs to drift from day
to day. Of course he had seen very little of Hunt Rennie at the
Stronghold; his father had ridden south on patrol with his own private
posse shortly after his own arrival there. But whenever Drew thought
seriously of the future he had that odd sense of dislocation and loss
which he had first known on the night he had seen _Don_ Cazar arrive at
the cantina. _Don_ Cazar--Hunt Rennie. Drew Kirby--Drew Rennie. A seesaw to
make a man dizzy, or maybe the vertigo he felt was the product of too much
sun, dust, and riding.
There was someone at a far table in the cantina, but otherwise the dusky
room was empty. Drew went directly to the bar. "Got any coffee, Fowler?"
"Sure thing. Nye was in here 'bout five minutes ago. Said for you to wait
here for him. You hear 'bout Kitchell holdin' up th' stage?"
"Callie told me. Said the army patrol went out after him."
"Yeah, don't mean they'll nail him though. He's as good as an Apache 'bout
keepin' undercover. Here's your coffee. Want some grub, too?"
The smell of coffee revived Drew's hunger. "Sure could use some. Haven't
eaten since we broke camp at sunup."
"Sing's in th' kitchen. I'll give him th' sign to rattle th' pans.
Say--been racin' that Shiloh of yours lately? Sure am glad I played a hunch
an' backed him against Oro." Fowler's red forelock bobbed over his high
forehead as he nodded vigorously.
"No racin' on the Range."
"Hope you're keepin' him closer. That border crew'd sure like to git a
rope on him! Down Sonora way one of them Mexes would dig right down to th'
bottom of his money chest to buy a hoss like that. I'll go an' tell Sing."
Drew, coffee mug in hand, sat down at a table where some of the breeze
beat in the door now and then. Lord, he was really tired. He stretched out
his legs, and the sun made twinkly points of light on the rowels of the
Mexican spurs. Sipping the coffee, he allowed himself the luxury of not
doing any thinking at all.
Fowler brought a heaping plate and Drew began to eat.
"Oh, there you are!" Nye slammed in, swung one of the chairs about, and
sat on it back to front, his arms folded across the back.
"You ridin' out to tell the army we're here--with the horses?" Drew asked.
"Nope, caught sight of them ridin' in. Looked like Sergeant Muller was in
command--he'll come in here. Hey, Fowler, how's about another plate of
fodder?"
"Steady on, fella. Make it straight ahead now!"
Both of them looked up. A burly man wearing sergeant's stripes steered a
slighter figure before him through the open door. Johnny Shannon, a
bandage about his uncovered head, lurched as if trying to free himself
from the other's grip and caught at a chair back. Nye and Drew jumped up
to ease him into a seat.
"What's--?" began Nye.
Muller interrupted. "Found him crawlin' along right near town. Says as how
he was took by Kitchell 'n' got away, but he ain't too clear 'bout what
happened or where. Wearin' a crease 'longside his skull; maybe that
scrambled up his thinkin' some."
"Better get Doc Matthews. I think he's in town." Fowler came from the bar,
a glass in hand.
"Right. I'll go." Nye started out.
Johnny had slumped forward, his head on the table encircled by his limp
arms. Drew was puzzled. Shannon was supposed to have ridden south on the
Range, not north. What was he doing this far away from the water-hole
route? Had he found a trail which led him in this direction? Or had he
been jumped somewhere by Kitchell's pack of wolves and forced along for
some purpose of their own?
"Was he ridin', Sergeant?" Drew asked, hardly knowing why.
"No--footin' it. Said somethin' about Long Canyon after we gave him a pull
at a canteen. Sure came a long way if that's where he started."
"I'll go get Hamilcar. He knows somethin' 'bout doctorin'," Fowler cut in.
"Maybe Doc Matthews ain't here, after all."
"Hey, Sarge, can I see you a minute?" came a hail from without.
"You manage." Muller made it more order than request as he left.
Drew sat alone with Shannon, one hand on the boy's shoulder to steady him.
He was aware of movement behind him. If the fellow at the back table had
been dozing earlier, he was roused now.
"Where did you git them spurs?"
Drew turned, his lips shaped a name, tried again, and got it out as a
hoarse whisper. "Anse! Don't you know me, Anse?"
He saw eyes lift from the floor level, the scarred cheek under a ragged
fringe of beard; and then astonishment in the other's expression became a
flashing grin.
"Drew--Drew Rennie! Lordy, it's sure enough Drew Rennie!"
Drew was on his feet. His hands on the other's shoulders pulled him
forward into a rough half embrace. "Anse!" He swayed to the joyous
pounding of a fist between his shoulder blades. "I thought you were dead!"
he somehow gasped.
"An' I seen _you_ go down; a slug got you plumb center!" the Texan
sputtered. "Rolled 'round a bush an' saw you git it! But for a ghost
you're sure lively!"
"Caught me in the belt buckle," Drew recounted that miracle of the war.
"Knocked me out; didn't really touch to matter, though."
Anse pushed away a little, still holding Drew tightly by the upper arms.
"Anybody told me I'd see Drew Rennie live an' kickin', I'd said straight
to his face he was a fork-tongued liar!"
Drew came partly to his senses and the present. Fowler ... Nye ... either
one of them could come back on this reunion. "Anse--listen! This is
important. I ain't Drew Rennie--not here, not now--"
"Had to draw a new name outta th' deck?" Anse's grin faded; his eyes
narrowed. "All right, what's the goin' handle?"
"Kirby, Drew Kirby ... I'll explain later." He had given the warning only
just in time. Fowler and Hamilcar were coming from the back room of the
cantina, and there was a stir at the table.
Johnny was sitting up, his head swaying from side to side, his eyes on
Drew and Anse. But the stare was unfocused; he must still be only half
conscious. Drew had a fleeting prick of worry. Had Shannon heard anything
he would remember? There was nothing to be done about that now.
7
" ... and that's the way it is." Drew sat on the stool which was the only
other furnishing in the bath cubicle while Anse splashed and wallowed in
the slab tub.
The Texan swiped soap from his cheek. "An' ain't you gonna tell?"
"I don't know. Would you?"
"Go with m' hat in hand an' say, 'Well, Pa, here's your wanderin' boy'?
No, I dunno as how I'd be makin' that kinda play neither. Never was one to
unspool th' bedroll till I was sure o' th' brand I was ridin' for. An' you
an' me's kinda hide-matched there. Glad you wised me up in time."
"Maybe I didn't," Drew admitted.
"You mean that Shannon? I know you think he's filin' his teeth for you,
but I'd say he was too busy countin' stars from that skull beltin' to make
sense out of our hurrawin'. I'll give him th' eye though. Lissen now,
you're Kirby--so am I called for a rebrandin', too? Seems like two Kirbys
turnin' up in a town this size is gonna make a few people ask some
questions."
"You're my cousin--Anson Kirby." Drew had already thought that out. "Now,
you've some tall talkin' to do your ownself. I saw you roll out of your
saddle back in Tennessee. How come you turn up here and now?"
Anse sluiced water over his head and shoulders with cupped hands.
"Do I tell it jus' like it happened, you'll think I'm callin' up mountains
outta prairie-dog hills, it's that crazy. But it's range truth. Yeah, I
landed outta that saddle on some mighty hard ground. If you'll remember, I
had me a hole in the shoulder big enough to let th' wind whistle through.
I rolled between th' bushes jus' in time to see you get it--plumb center
an' final, so I thought. Then ... well, I don't remember too good for a
while. Next time I was able to take a real interest I was lyin' on a bed
with about a mountain of quilts on top me, weaker'n a yearlin' what's jus'
been dragged outta a bog hole. Seems like them Yankees gathered me up with
th' rest of them bushwacker scrubs, but when they got me a mile or so down
th' road they decided as how I'd had it good an' there was no use wastin'
wagon room on me. So they let me lie....
"Only," the Texan paused and then continued more soberly, "Drew,
sometimes--sometimes it seems like a hombre can have a mite more'n his
share of luck; or else he's got him Someone as is line ridin' for him. We
had us friends in Tennessee, an' it jus' happened as how I was dropped
where one of them families found me. They sure was good folks; patched me
up an' saw me through like I was their close kin. Hid me out by sayin' as
how I had th' cholera.
"An' most of th' time I didn't know a rope from a saddle--outta my head
complete. First there was that shoulder hole; then I got me a good case of
lung fever. It was two months 'fore I could crawl round better'n a sick
calf what lost its ma too early. Then, jus' as I got so I could stamp m'
boots on th' ground an' expect to stand straight up in 'em, this here
Yankee patrol came 'long an' dogged me right into a bunch o' our boys they
had rounded up. I had me some weeks in a prison stockade, which ain't, I'm
tellin' you, no way for to spend any livin' time. Then this here war was
over, an' I was loose. No hoss, no nothin'. Some of th' boys got to
talkin' 'bout trailin' back to Texas, tryin' out some ranchin' in the bush
country. A lotta wild stuff down there--nobody's been runnin' brands on
anythin' much since '61. We planned to get a herd of mavericks, drive up
into Kansas or Missouri, an' sell. A couple of th' boys had run stuff in
that way for th' army, even swum 'em across the Mississippi. It would
maybe give us a start. An'--well, there weren't nothin' else to do. So we
tried it." Anse sat staring down at the water lapping at his lean middle.
His was a very thin body, the ribs standing out beneath the skin almost as
harshly as did the weal of the scar on his shoulder.
"And it didn't work?"
"Well, it might've. I ain't sayin' it won't for some hombres. Only we run
into trouble. Texas ain't Texas no more; it's th' Fifth Military District.
Any man what fought for th' Confederacy ain't got any rights. It's worse'n
an Injun war. We got us our herd, leastwise th' beginnin' of one. An' that
was back-breakin' work--we was feelin' as beat as when we run out of
Tennessee after Franklin. Only we kept to it, 'cause it would give us a
stake. So we started drivin' north, an' they jumped us."
"Who?"
"Yankees--th' brand what probably set at home an' let others do th' real
fightin'--ready to come in an' take over once th' shootin' was done with.
They grabbed th' herd. Shot Will Bachus when he stood up to 'em, an' made
it all legal 'cause they had a tin-horn deputy ridin' with 'em. Well, we
got him anyway an' two or three of th' others. But then they called in th'
army, an' we had to ride for it. Scattered so they had more'n one trail to
follow. But they posted us as 'wanted' back there. So I come whippin' a
mighty tired hoss outta Texas, an' I ain't plannin' on goin' back to any
Fifth Military District!"
"Any chance they'll push a star after you here?"
"No. I'm jus' small stuff, not worth botherin' 'bout by their reckonin',
now I ain't got anythin' left them buzzards can pick offen m' bones.
They's sittin' tight an' gittin' fat right there."
"Then it's all set." Drew tossed Anse a towel. "Climb out and we'll get
started!"
"Doin what?"
"You've worked horses, and they can use another wrangler on the Range.
Right now they've a lot to be topped--want to gentle 'em some and trade 'em
south into Mexico. If you ride for _Don_ Cazar, nobody's goin' to ask too
many questions."
"How d'you know he'll sign me on?" Anse studied his own unkempt if now
clean reflection in the shaving mirror on the wall. "I sure don't look
like no bargain."
"You will when we're through with you," Drew began. The Texan swung
around.
"Looky here, you thinkin' of grub stakin'? I ain't gonna--"
"Suppose you had yourself a stack of cart wheels and my pockets were to
let?" Drew retorted. "I think I remember me some times when we had one
blanket and a hunk of hardtack between us, and there weren't any 'yours'
or 'mine' about it! Or don't you think back that far?"
Anse laughed. "All right, _compadre_, pretty me up like a new stake rope
on a thirty-dollar pony. If I don't agree, likely you'll trip up m'
foreleg an' reshoe me anyway. Right now--I'll say it out good'n clear--I'm
so pore m' backbone rattles when I cough."
"Mistuh Kirby--" Hamilcar came in. "Mistuh Nye says to tell you he'll be
back. Mistuh Shannon's in bed at th' doctuh's; he's gonna be all right
soon's he gets ovah a mighty big headache."
He had actually forgotten Shannon! Hastily Drew expressed his satisfaction
at the news and added:
"This is my cousin from Texas, Hamilcar. He hit town ridin' light. I'm
goin' over to pick him up a new outfit at Stein's. You give him all the
rest, will you?"
"Yes, suh."
Blue blouses--a corporal's guard of troopers--were pulling up by the cantina
hitch rail as Drew came out into the plaza. Muller's men probably, he
thought. But now he was more intent on Anse's needs.
Few people had ever broken through the crust of self-sufficiency the
Kentuckian had begun to grow in early childhood. His grandfather's bitter
hatred of his father had made Drew an outsider at Red Springs from birth
and had finally driven him away to join General Morgan in '62. Those he
had ever cared about he could list on the fingers of one sun-browned,
rein-hardened hand: Cousin Meredith; her son Shelly--he had died at
Chickamauga between one short breath and the next--Shelly's younger brother
Boyd, who had run away to join Morgan, too, in the sunset of the raider's
career; and Anse, whom he had believed dead until this past hour.
Drew was breathing as fast as if he had charged across the sun-baked plaza
at a run, when he came into the general store which supplied Tubacca with
nine-tenths of the materials necessary for frontier living. He made his
selection with care.
"You planning a trip, Mister Kirby?" Stein peered at him over a pair of
old-fashioned, steel-bowed spectacles which perched on his sharp parrot's
beak of a nose.
"No. My cousin just rode in; he lost his gear on the road and needs a new
outfit complete."
Stein nodded, patted smooth the top shirt on a growing pile. "Anything
else?"
"Add those up. I'll look around." Drew paused to glance into the single
small, glass-fronted case which was Stein's claim to fame in the
surrounding territory. The exotic wares on display were a strange mixture:
a few pieces of jewelry, heavy Spanish things which might be a century or
more old, several six-guns--one with an ornate ivory handle.... Drew
stopped and pulled a finger across the dusty surface of the glass case.
Spurs--silver spurs--not quite so elaborate as those he now wore, but of the
same general workmanship.
"I'd like to look at those spurs."
Stein unlocked the case and took them out. As Drew unstrapped those he
wore and fitted the new pair to his boots, a brown, calf-bound book
thudded to the floor. Books--here in Stein's?
Weighing the volume in his hand, the Kentuckian straightened up. There
were two more books lying on the top of the case. The leather bindings
were scuffed and one was scored clear across the back, yet they had been
handsome, undoubtedly treasured. Drew turned them up to read the scrolled
gold titles on their spines.
"_History of the Conquest of Mexico_, _The Three Musketeers,__ The Count
of Monte Cristo_ ... Where'd these come from, Mister Stein?" Drew's
curiosity was aroused.
"That is a story almost as fanciful as the ones inside them." Stein rested
his bony elbows on the counter as he talked. "Would you believe, Mister
Kirby, these were brought to me by Amos Lutterfield?"
"Lutterfield? Who's he?"
"I forget, you have not been in Tubacca long. Amos Lutterfield--he is what
one might term a character, a strange one. He goes out into the wilds
alone, seeking always the gold."
"In Apache country?" Drew demanded.
"The Apaches, they do not touch a man they believe insane, and Amos has
many peculiarities: peculiarities of dress, of speech, of action. He roams
undisturbed, sometimes coming in with relics from the old cliff houses to
trade for supplies. Last month he told me a story of a cave where he found
a trunk. Where it had come from or why it was hidden he did not know, but
these books were in it. Like some men who have no formal education, Amos
is highly respectful of the printed word. He thought the books of great
value and so brought them here."
Drew opened the top volume. Back home books as well bound as these would
have carried a personal bookplate or at least the written name of the
owner, but the fly leaf was bare. They had the look of well-read,
cherished volumes but no mark of possession.
"You have perhaps read these?" Stein asked.
Drew picked up _The Three Musketeers_. "Not likely to forget this one," he
said, grinning. "Earned me a good ten with the cane when I read it instead
of dealing faithfully with Caesar's campaigns in Gaul. I did get to finish
it before I was caught out." The pages separated stiffly under his
exploring fingers as if the volume had not been opened for a long time. He
did not notice that Stein was eyeing him with new appraisal.
"These for sale?"
"In Stein's everything is for sale." The storekeeper named a price, and
Drew bargained. When he left, the three books reposed on the top of his
armload of clothing, and a half hour later he dropped them down on a
cantina table. Anse came from the bathhouse and sat down in the opposite
chair. His booted foot moved, but now rowel points flashed in the sun. The
Texan regarded the Mexican spurs joyfully, stooped to jingle them with his
finger tip.
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