Rebel Spurs
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Andre Norton >> Rebel Spurs
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Teodoro answered that. "Apaches want guns, _senor_. Their arrows are
deadly, but guns are always better."
"I'd think," Anse cut in, "that any guns Kitchell'd have he'd be hangin'
on to--needin' them his ownself. Can't be easy for _him_ to git them,
neither."
"Not here, no," Teodoro agreed. "But south, that is different. There is
big trouble in Mexico--this French emperor fights Juarez, so there is much
confusion. In wartime guns can be lost. A party of soldiers are cut off,
as was _Coronel_ Oliveri almost--men can be killed. But a gun--it is not
buried with a man. A gun is still useful, worth money, if he who picks it
up from beside the dead does not want it for himself. So--such a _bandido_
as this Kitchell, he could take horses, good, trained horses--maybe from
the army--and he would run them south. He would sell them for money, _si_,
probably much money. But also he could trade for guns--two, three, five
guns at a time. Not as good as those his own men carry--old ones maybe, but
good enough for Apaches. He would then bring these north, give them as
payment for being left alone."
"Why wouldn't the Apaches just kill him and his men and grab what they
have?" Drew pointed out what seemed to him the obvious flaw in the system.
"Apaches, they are not stupid. Guns they could take. But once such a gun
is broken, where can they get another? They cannot walk into Tubacca or
Tucson to buy what they need. Kitchell's men do, perhaps--it is thought
that they do so. Also when he trades at the border it is with men who
would meet the Apaches with fire and bullets. Apache war parties are never
large. Perhaps in all this part of the country there are not more than
half a hundred warriors--and those scattered in small bands. I do not say
that this is truth, _Senor_ Kirby. I only say that it would explain many
things--such as why Kitchell has not been caught."
"Makes sense," Anse commented. "Always did hear as how Apaches were
meaner'n snakes but they wasn't stupid. Keep a tame gunrunner to work for
'em--that sounds like th' tricky sorta play they cotton to. If it is so,
th' man who gits Kitchell may jus' rid this country of some of them
two-legged wolves into th' bargain."
"According to what I've heard," Drew said, "this Kitchell claims to lead a
regular Confederate force that hasn't surrendered. If he wants to make
that valid, he wouldn't dare any such deal!"
"I'll bet you without waitin' to see a hole card," Anse replied, "that if
that coyote was ever ridin' on our side--which I don't stretch ear to--he
cut loose them traces long ago. There were them buzzards we had us a
coupla run-ins with back in Tennessee, 'member? Scum ... some of 'em
wearin' blue coats, some gray, but they was all jus' murderin' outlaws.
What did they whine when they was caught? Did th' Yankees run 'em in, then
they was unlucky Reb scouts. An' when our boys licked up a nest of th'
varmints--why, we'd taken us a mess o' respectable Yank 'Irregulars,'
'cordin' to their story. 'Course none of their protestin' kept 'em from
stretched necks." His hand went to his own. "I oughta know, seem' as how I
was picked up with a parcel of 'em an' was close 'nough to feel th' wind
when a noose swung by.
"This here Kitchell--I'm takin' Bible oath he's th' same mangy breed. Maybe
so he started out to be Reb, but that was a long time ago an' he crossed
over th' river long since. An' some of them beauties back east, they'da
lapped muddy water outta an Apache's boot tracks, did it mean savin' their
dirty hides. Sounds to me, Teodoro, like you've some plain,
straightforward thinkin' there--a mighty interestin' idea. An' maybe we're
jus' goin' to attend to th' provin' of it!"
"Not by ourselves," Drew corrected. "We have our orders."
"Sure. But there ain't no order ever given what says a man has to stand up
an' be shot at an' he don't shoot back. No, I ain't sniffin' up trouble's
hot trail like a bush hound. But neither am I goin' t' sit down an' fold
my two hands together when trouble hits as it's like to do out here."
Drew agreed with that, though he did not say so. Rennie must know the
circumstances. They would have to defend themselves if it came to a fight.
But he could hope that, if Kitchell had stocked some hidden canyons with
stolen horses, the outlaw leader had left no guards on duty thereabouts.
With Running Fox prowling ahead and with him and Anse using all the scout
tricks they had learned in war-time, they should be able to learn just how
correct Teodoro's suspicions were.
12
"See, senores, the land lies so...." Hilario Trinfan's crooked body pulled
together in a lopsided perch as he squatted range fashion beside the
morning campfire. He had smoothed a space of ground the width of his two
hands and was setting out twigs and stones to create a miniature relief
map of the countryside. "Here is the water hole to which the Pinto comes.
Above that we were--moving in from this side. To do so we crossed here." A
black-rimmed nail stabbed into the dust.
"It is then we see the tracks--five ahead--all shod horses, but not ridden,
save for one."
"Apaches could have been running them," Drew commented.
"No." Trinfan shook his head. "This far from pursuit the Apaches would not
have moved so. The Indio, he eats horseflesh. There would have been signs
of a fire. Or one of the animals cut down. These horses were being moved
with care--not pushed too hard. We trailed them on to here." Hilario
stabbed his finger into the dust again. "Then--Teodoro, now tell them what
you saw."
The younger mustanger hung over the crude map. "I climbed, _senores_, up
over the rocks. It is bad, that ground, high, steep--but with care one can
reach a ledge. And along that one can go to look down into the next
canyon. A good place for horses--there is water and grass. I stayed there
watching with the glasses _Don_ Cazar gave my father, the glasses which
bring the far close. There were poles set up in the rocks through which
they brought those horses--making it like a pen we build for wild ones. But
those in it were not wild."
"How many--an' what brands?" Anse wanted to know.
Teodoro shrugged. "There are many trees, rocks; one can not see
everywhere. I counted twenty head--there is room for more. As to brands,
even the glasses could not make those plain to the eyes of one lying
above. But there is no other ranchero who would run horses on the Range
and _Don_ Cazar's _manadas_ are not driven in here--does he want the wild
ones to run off his mares? Horses would be kept so for only one reason,
that they must be hidden. And in such a place as we found they could be
left for maybe a month, or more. _Don_ Cazar's riders do not patrol this
far away from the Stronghold. Had it not been that the Pinto causes so
much trouble, even we would not be here."
"What about the Pinto? If he's all you say, wouldn't he try to get at this
band?" asked Drew.
"No reason if they are saddle stock--no mares among them," Anse said
thoughtfully. "But would those hombres who put 'em there jus' leave--no
guards or nothin'?"
"That is what we do not know," Hilario replied. "We took every precaution
against being seen when Teodoro climbed to look into the canyon. And--this
I believe--we were not suspected if there was any watcher. Otherwise,
otherwise, _senores_, we would not have been alive to greet you when you
rode in last night! This Kitchell, he is like an Apache--here, there,
everywhere. Today I am easier because you have brought the Pima, because
we have two more guns in this camp."
"Why didn't you pull out yourselves?" Anse asked curiously.
"Because, were we watched, that would have made our discovery as plain as
if we stood out in the open and shouted it to the winds. For three days
before we found that trail we had been building a pen for wild ones,
casting about for the tracks and runs of the Pinto's band. Having done so,
we would not leave without completing our drive. And, should those out
there suspect"--Trinfan shook his head--"we would not have lived to reach
the Stronghold, and that is the truth."
"This is also truth, _padre_." Faquita came to the fire and picked up the
coffeepot, pouring the thick black liquid into the waiting line of tin
cups. "It is time for us to finish and be on the move--not to just talk of
what must be done."
Drew looked up in surprise. The girl was wearing breeches, ready to ride.
In addition, instead of the gunbelts which all the men wore as a matter of
course, Faquita had tucked a pair of derringers in the front of her sash
belt. Their small grips showed above the faded silk folds.
"She goin' with us?" the Kentuckian asked, as the girl kicked dust over
the campfire and stowed the empty pot in the cart. "Ain't that
dangerous--for her?"
Hilario got to his feet with a lurch that made his crippled state only too
plain. "_Senor_, to hunt the wild ones is dangerous. You see me, twisted
like a root, no? Not tall and straight as a man should be. This was done
by the wild ones--in one small moment when I was not quick enough. Among
us--the mustangers--it is often the daughters who are the best riders. They
are quick, eager, riding lighter than their brothers or their fathers. And
to some it is a loved life. With Faquita that is true. As for danger--is
that not always with us?
"In war danger is a thing which one man makes for another. In this country
the land itself fights man--war or no war. A cloudburst fills an arroyo
with a flood without warning, and a man is drowned amidst desert sand
where only hours before he could have died for lack of that same water.
There is a fall of rocks, a fall of horse, a stampede of cattle, sickness
which strikes at a lone traveler out of nowhere. Yet have you not ridden
to war, and come now to live on this land? _Si_, we have danger--but a man
can also die in his bed in the midst of a village with strong walls. And
to everyone his own way of life. Now we ride...."
They did indeed ride, following a trail which, as far as Drew could see,
existed only in the minds of the mustangers. But the three Mexicans swung
along so confidently that he and Anse joined without question or argument.
At a distance they circled the waiting pen with walls of entwined brush
and sapling, ready to funnel driven horses into a blind canyon. The
Pinto's band must be located, somehow shaken out of the rocky territory
their wily leader favored, before that drive could begin. Water, Trinfan
said, would be the key. Horses must drink and they were creatures of
habit, never ranging far from some one hole they had made their own.
Trinfan blankets already flapped about the Pinto's chosen spring. They had
seen the horses approach several times in the past two days and shy away
from those flapping things with the fearsome man scent.
"As long as La Bruja is with them," Faquita said, coming up beside Drew,
"they will not come."
"La Bruja?"
"The Witch, as Anglos would say. We call her so because of her cunning.
She is the wise one who keeps lookout. I say she is possessed by the Evil
One. It is possible the Pinto is her son. Together they have always
outwitted the hunters. But La Bruja is old--she runs more stiffly. Last
time in the chase she began to drop behind. She is of no use, only a
nuisance. It is the White One I wish to drop rope over!"
"The White One?"
"_Si._ She is Nieve--the snow of the upper mountains. Among our people you
will hear many tales of white ones, without a dark spot on them--the Ghost
Stallions that run the plains and no man may lay rope over. But this mare
is the truth! And someday--" Her eyes shone and she seemed to be making
some vow Drew would be called to bear witness to. "Someday she will be
mine! Not to trail south and sell--no--but to keep, always!"
"She must be very beautiful," he commented.
"It is not only that, _senor_. You have a fine horse, one which beat _Don_
Cazar's Oro, is that not so?"
"Yes. Shiloh ..."
"And to you that one is above all other horses. If you lost him, you would
be--like hungry ... inside you, is that not also so?"
"Yes!" Her earnestness triggered that instant response from him.
"So it is with me since I have seen Nieve. Men find such a horse; for
years they follow the band in which it runs to snare it. They will suffer
broken bones, as did my father, and hunger, and thirst, because there is
one tossing head, one set of flying heels before them. Sometimes they are
lucky and they catch that one. If they do not, there is in them a pinch of
winter even when the desert sun is hot. Once I loved all horses--now there
is this one which I must have!"
"I hope you get her!"
"_Senor_, last season I hoped. This season--this season I have belief that
my hopes will come true. Ah, look, the Indio!"
She pointed with quirt and Drew glanced left. He saw what appeared to be
an outcrop of rock among many others move, then rise on sturdy legs to
meet them.
Running Fox, a brown blanket twisted over one shoulder, the rest of him
stripped down to breechclout and moccasins, padded up to Hilario Trinfan
and spoke in the guttural Pima. The mustanger translated.
"The horses are still there. But there is a camp of two men on the north
slope above the canyon. Both men are Anglos. They are armed with rifles
and take turns watching."
"Can we reach a place from where we can read the brands on the horses?"
Drew asked.
Trinfan questioned the Pima.
"_Si._ But you can not go there by day. You must go in at dusk, wait out
the night, and then see what you could in the early morning. Leave before
sunup. Otherwise the watchers may be able to locate you. He says"--Trinfan
smiled--"that _he_ could go at high noon and would not be seen. But for a
white man is a different matter."
"Waste a whole day jus' waitin'!" Anse protested.
"_Senor_, when one balances time against death, then I would say time is
the better choice," Hilario replied. "But this day will not be wasted. If
any watch us--as well as those horses--they will see us about our business
and will have no doubt that we hunt wild horses, not stolen ones."
So Drew and Anse joined the mustangers' hunting. To Anse this was
something he had done before. Drew remembered that the Texan had been
working with just such a hunting party when his family had been wiped out
by the Comanches in '59. But to Drew it was a new experience and he was
deeply intrigued by what he saw and the reasons for such action.
All they sighted of the Pinto's now thoroughly thirsty band was the stud
himself and a black mare--La Bruja--looking down from a vantage point high
on a rocky rim. And the hunters did not try to reach them, knowing that
all the wild ones would be long gone before they could reach that lookout.
"This is the fourth day." Hilario Trinfan sat his buckskin at the water
hole, watched Teodoro make careful adjustment of the blankets tied on the
bushes. "They will be wild with thirst. Tomorrow the blankets will be
taken down. There will be no sign of man here. By mid-afternoon the mares
will be ready to fight past the Pinto for water. He can not hold them
away. So, they will come and drink--too much. Perhaps he will come, too. If
he does"--Trinfan snapped his fingers--"I shall be waiting with a rifle. We
take no more chances with that one! Anyway, the mares will be heavy and
slow with all the water in their bellies. They can be herded into our
trap. Then he will come, _si_, that one will come--no one can take his
mares from him! He will be mad with rage, too angry to be any longer so
cunning. We shall have him then. And there will be no more killings of
studs here."
At dusk Running Fox slipped down to the camp, but not far enough into the
circle of firelight to be sighted by any watcher in the night. Then with
Drew and Anse he was off again.
Within less than a quarter-hour Drew could have laughed wryly at his past
satisfaction in his prowess as a scout. Compared to this flitting shadow
he was a bush bull crashing through the brush. Anse was better, much
better, but even he was far below the standard set by the Pima. The trio
climbed, crept, crouched for long moments waiting for Drew knew not
what--some sound, some scent, some sight in the night which Running Fox
would accept as assurance of temporary safety.
The Kentuckian had no idea of how long it took them to reach the perch
into which they at last pushed. A breastwork of rock was before him; the
half circle of a shallow cave cut off a portion of the star-pointed sky
above. "Stay--here." The two words were grunted at them out of the dark.
Then nothing ... Running Fox had vanished in a way which could make a man
believe they had been escorted not by a living Pima, but by a ghost from
that long-forgotten race which had left their houses scattered in canyon
niches up and down this country.
It was cold, even though the half cave shielded most of the wind. Drew
unrolled the blanket he had carried tied about him, and he squeezed down
beside Anse. Their combined body warmth ought to keep them fairly
comfortable. Drew doubled his hands inside his coat, wriggling his gloved
fingers to keep them from stiffening.
"Sure do wish there was some way a fella could bring him a little
invisible fire along on a trip like this," Anse commented. "Ain't goin' to
be what I'd name right out as a comfortable night."
"Never seems to be any easy way to do a hard thing," Drew assented. He
hugged himself, his hands slipped back and forth about his waist. Under
his two shirts--he had added the second before he left the Stronghold--the
band of his money belt made a lump and now his hands ran along it.
He had had no occasion to open any of those pockets since he had left
Tubacca the first time. Now, to take his mind off immediate discomfort, he
tried to estimate by touch alone how many coins still remained in the two
pockets. The middle section of the three divisions held his papers. There
were those for the horses, the parole he had brought from Gainesville, the
two letters he had not been able to bring himself to deliver to Hunt
Rennie. One was from Cousin Merry, and the other was a formal,
close-to-legal statement drawn up by Uncle Forbes' attorney. Both were
intended to prove the identity of one Drew Rennie beyond any reasonable
doubt.
Drew's fingers stilled above that pocket. It felt too thick, bunchy under
his pinching. Whatever--? He squirmed around, free of the blanket, and
began to pull off his gloves.
"What's th' matter?" the Texan began in a whisper.
"Just a minute!" It was a clumsy business, pulling the belt free from
under his layers of heavy clothing. But Drew got it across his knee. His
chilled fingers picked at the fastening of the pocket. There was no packet
of papers there--neither the sheets for the horse, nor the much-creased
strip of the parole, nor the sealed envelope which had held both letters.
Instead he plucked out what felt like shreds of grass and leaves, dry and
crackling.
"What is it?" Anse leaned forward.
"My papers--they're gone!" Drew rummaged frantically, turning the pocket
inside out. When--who?
"What papers, _compadre_?"
Drew explained.
"You've been wearin' that there belt constantly, ain't you?"
"Yes. Except--" He suddenly tensed. "That night, down by the swimmin' hole,
when you thought you saw somethin' in the bushes ... remember?"
"I remember. Looky here, who'd want 'em--an' why?"
"Shannon!" And in that moment Drew was as certain of that as if he had
actually seen Johnny stripping them out of the belt.
"How'd he know you were carryin' anythin'?"
"He knew I had the belt. I left it with Topham when I raced Shiloh, and he
saw me give it to him. And, Anse, he must have heard you call me 'Rennie'
in the Jacks! If he did, he'd want to find out more--Rennie's not a common
name. And Shannon's not stupid. He'd figure anything valuable I'd be
carryin' would be in this belt."
"How come you didn't know it was gone?"
"I don't know. Seemed just as heavy and that pocket didn't ride any
different when I had it on. No reason to open it lately."
"So--what's he got? Your hoss papers, your parole outta th' army, an' them
two letters. Yeah, he's got jus' 'bout all he needs to make one big war
smoke for you."
"And I can't prove he has them," Drew said bleakly.
"Jus' by makin' him one little private fire," Anse went on, "he could
about put you outta business, _compadre_. There's only one thing to do."
"Such as?"
"Johnny Shannon has got to do some talkin' his ownself. An' we can't wait
too long to invite him to a chin-waggin' party, neither!"
Anse was right. Shannon had only to slip that collection of papers into
the nearest fire and he would put an end to Drew Rennie. Of course Drew
could obtain duplicates of the letters and horse papers from Kentucky, but
that might take months. And he did not know whether the parole could be
reissued from army records. Why, at this moment he could not prove that he
had served in the east with the Army of Tennessee. Let Bayliss come down
on him now and he was defenseless....
"We can't ride tonight," Anse added. "But come first light we give a
look-see here an' then we move--straight back to th' Stronghold an'
Shannon. Also--I'm sayin' this 'cause I think it's good advice, Drew. Now's
th' time you've got to go to th' Old Man an' tell him th' truth, quick as
you can. Sure, I know why you didn't want to claim kin before, but now
you'll have to."
Drew shook his head. "Not now--not with nothing to back up my story.
Shannon could give me the lie direct."
"I'm thinkin' you're showin' less brains than a dumb cow-critter, _amigo_.
But, lissen--I'm backin' your play. Does Shannon cut up rough, he's got two
of us hitchin' a holster steady an' gittin' ready to loose lead."
"No, I'm not goin' to drag you in."
"Yeah--an' I mean yeah! We joined trails a long time back, by that there
mill pond in Kentucky, and we ain't splittin' now. If a storm's walkin' up
on us slow--or comin' fast with its tail up--it's goin' to be both of us
gittin' under or out together."
Drew put on the belt again. His impatience bit at him, but what Anse said
made sense. They had been sent here to do a job and in the morning they
would do it. Then they could ride back to the Stronghold. How he was going
to handle Shannon he had no idea, but that he would have to he was sure.
The first light was a gray rim around the world as they lay flat, training
the glasses Hilario had loaned them on two horses grazing not too far
below.
"Well, that's it. U.S. As big an' plain as th' paint on a Comanche face
an' almost as ugly. Them's army mounts an' I don't see no troopers
hereabouts," Anse said.
Running Fox materialized in his ghostly fashion, and they retraced at a
better speed and less effort the path which had brought them to the canyon
perch. Just as they were about to top the ridge behind the mustanger camp,
the Pima held up a warning hand.
"Long knives...."
"Troopers?" They went to their knees and made a stealthy crawl to the
crest of the ridge.
There were troopers down there, all right. The Trinfans sat on their
saddles while an officer walked up and down before them. Running Fox put a
finger on Drew's arm and motioned to the left. The horses of the
mustangers were browsing in a small dell, their night hobbles unloosed.
Together the trio moved in that direction.
The Pima slipped ahead with a speed and efficiency of motion his
companions envied. He had the two nearest horses in hand, leading them
toward the bushes.
"Looks like we ride bareback." Anse caught at a hackamore, then mounted.
"Move!" Drew waved Running Fox to the other horse. "We can't wait to get
another horse. You ride for the Stronghold, make it straight to Rennie and
report. I'm stayin' here. I can say we were fired and Trinfan took me on
as a hand."
Anse was the better rider under these circumstances, and the better scout.
To wait to pick up a third horse was folly.
"What about Shannon?"
"Shannon'll have to wait!" Drew slapped the Texan's horse. It reared and
then pounded off. Drew turned to walk back to the camp. He rounded the end
of the ridge and stopped short. The round and deadly mouth of an Army Colt
was pointed straight at his middle, covering the disastrously empty pocket
of his money belt.
13
A lantern provided a very small and smoky light on a table of three boards
mounted on boxes. If the furniture was makeshift, the walls of the room
were not. Logs and adobe were just as effective for the purpose of
confinement as stone blocks. Drew sat up on a bunk shell of board holding
straw, and rested his head between his hands. He could follow the action
which had brought him here, trace it back almost minute by minute over the
past three days. How he had come here was plain enough; why was another
matter.
Lieutenant Spath, back in the mustangers' camp, might have accepted the
Kentuckian's story. Or he might at least have been uncertain enough not to
arrest him, if only Trooper Stevens had not been one of the patrol. Once
before Stevens had been most vocal about Rebs who were too free with their
fists. Spath's trooper guard, reporting the escape of Running Fox and
Anse, had condemned his captive fully as far as the lieutenant was
concerned. The troopers had then searched their prisoner and to them a
loaded money belt worn by a drifter did not make good sense, either--unless
too much sense on the wrong side of the ledger. Drearily Drew had to admit
that had he stood in the lieutenant's boots, he would have made exactly
the same decision and brought his prisoner back to the camp.
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