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Rebel Spurs, a novel by Andre Norton |
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Chapter 11 |
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_ "Magnífico!" Drew glanced over Shiloh’s back to the speaker. Coronel Oliveri paused in the doorway of the stable to study the stallion with almost exuberant admiration mirrored on his dark and mobile features. "Don Cazar"—the Mexican officer raised a gloved hand in a beckoning gesture—"por favor, Excellency ... this one, he is of the Blood?" Hunt Rennie joined Oliveri. "You are right. He is indeed of the Blood," he assented. "It is past all hope then to offer for him?" Oliveri was smiling, but his eyes held a greedy glint Drew had seen before. Shiloh was apt to produce that reaction in any horseman. "He is not mine to sell, Coronel. He belongs to Señor Kirby who stands there with him." "So?" Oliveri’s open astonishment irritated Drew. Maybe he did have on rough work clothes and look the part of a range drifter. But then when the Coronel had arrived here last night, he had not been too neat either. "A fine horse, señor." Oliveri came on in, now including Drew in his gaze. "I think so, Coronel," Drew returned shortly. He gave a last brush to flank and smoothed the saddle blanket. "From a distance you have brought him, señor?" Oliveri walked about the stud as Drew went to fetch his saddle. "From Kentucky." Was he unduly suspicious or was there a challenge in the Mexican officer’s voice—a faint suggestion that the antecedents of both horse and owner were in question? "Kentucky ..." Oliveri stumbled in his repetition of the word. "I have heard of Kentucky horses." "Most people have." Drew tightened the cinch. Then his pride in Shiloh banished some of his stiffness. "He is of the line of Eclipse." Maybe that would not mean much to a Mexican, though. The breeding of eastern American horses probably did not register south of the border. "Señor—such a one—he is not for sale?" "No." Drew knew that sounded curt, but Oliveri ruffled him. He added, "One does not sell a friend." Oliveri gave what sounded to Drew like an exaggerated sigh. "Señor, you have spoiled my day. How can one look at lesser animals when one has seen such a treasure? Don Cazar, the Range harbors so many treasures—Oro, and now this one. How is he named, señor?" "Shiloh." "Shiloh ..." The Coronel made a sibilant hiss of the word. "An Indio name?" "No, a battle." Drew prepared to lead out. "In the war." "So. And this one is a fighter, too. I think. Señor, should you ever wish to sell, por favor, remember one Luis Oliveri! For such a horse as this—sí, a man might give a fortune! Ah, to ride into camp before that puffed-up gamecock of a Merinda on such a horse!" Oliveri closed his eyes as if better to imagine the triumph. "Shiloh’s not for sale, Coronel," Drew replied. Oliveri shrugged. "Perhaps now, no. But time changes and chance changes, señor. So remember Luis Oliveri will give a fortune—and this is the truth, señor!" "Hunt!" Drew was forced to halt as Johnny Shannon stood straight ahead of him in the stable entrance. "Teodoro Trinfan’s come in with some news you oughta hear." "So? Well. I’m coming. Coronel, Johnny can show you the stock we have ready. I will be back as soon as I can." "Still I say"—Oliveri shook his head as Rennie pushed past Drew and Shiloh and went out—"that after seeing this one, all others will be as pale shadows of nothingness. But since I must have horses, Señor Shannon, I will look at horses. Buenos dias, señor." He raised a hand to Drew and the Kentuckian nodded. But Shannon still stood in the doorway, and short of walking straight into him there was no way for Drew to leave. Johnny was smiling a little—just as he had back in Tubacca in Topham’s office before the race. "Seems like you’ve got you a four-legged gold mine there, Kirby," he said. "Better keep your eyes peeled—gold claims have been jumped before in this country. Kitchell’d give a lot to git a hoss like that to run south." "He’d have to," Drew said grimly. "In lead—if he wanted it that way." "Kinda sure of that, ain’t you?" The smile had not cracked, nor had it reached those shuttered blue eyes. Why did everyone say Johnny Shannon was a boy? Inside he was older than most of the men Drew had known—as old and cold as the desert rocks in nighttime. Again the Kentuckian was teased by a scrap of memory. Once before he had seen old eyes in a boy’s face, when it had meant deadly danger for him. "When a man has somethin’ as belongs to him, he doesn’t step aside easy if another makes a play to grab it," he said. For the first time then he did see a flicker in Shannon’s eyes. And his hand tightened so on the reins that some fraction of his reaction must have reached Shiloh. The horse neighed, pawed with a forefoot. "Just what I’ve always thought, too, Kirby." Shannon’s voice was softer, more drawling than ever. And there was menace in it—but why? What did Shannon have against him? This was more now than the fact that they had both bristled, incompatible, at their first meeting. It was more than just instinctive dislike. No, Johnny Shannon was not a reckless boy; Drew Kirby knew that, if no one else on the Range did. "Coronel"—Shannon stepped aside from the door—"we may not be able to git you somethin’ as fine as this here prancer, but we ain’t altogether lackin’ in mighty good hosses. Come ’long an’ look ’em over...." Drew rode off, out of the patio gate, giving Shiloh his daily workout, trying to guess what Johnny Shannon had against him. Had he been right in his fear that Johnny had not been unconscious back in Tubacca, that he had caught Anse’s greeting? Rennie was not too common a name, but he did not see how Johnny could possibly have hit upon the truth. What if he had, though? To Johnny, Drew could loom as a threat. He might be baffled as to why the Kentuckian had not made a move to claim kinship with Hunt. How much of Rennie’s own past history was known to the people here? His escape from prison during the Mexican War was common knowledge. But, come to think of it, no one had mentioned his youthful marriage or the fact that he was a widower. Perhaps even Johnny had never heard that story, close to Hunt as he was. But Drew dared ask no questions. He was still puzzling over the situation when he returned an hour later. Nye, Anse, and a couple of the other riders had some of the recently broken mounts out, showing them off to Oliveri. There was shouting, noise, and confusion around the corrals and Drew slipped past without pausing. He had finished with Shiloh and was on his way to the bunkhouse when Hunt Rennie hailed him. "Drew!" An imperative wave of the hand brought him to join Don Cazar and to discover Anse already there, rolling his bed. For a second or two Drew blinked—the occupation fitted in too well with their worries of the night before. But Hunt Rennie was already explaining. "Teodoro tells me that they’ve found traces of shod horses being driven back in the canyons. This late the grass is beginning to brown, but there are still some sections where stock can be wintered. I want to know more about this. Since both of you are newcomers—" Rennie paused and then added: "Your riding away from here might appear to others that you had quit, were joining up with the mustangers on your own." "To hunt horses?" Drew asked. "Not wild ones." "Sounds like trouble." Anse tied his bedroll. "In this country we expect trouble, from any direction—including up and down!" Rennie returned. "But I find it disturbing that broken stock is being herded back there. Such maneuvers can mean only one thing—stolen animals are being gathered for a run to the border. And some of them could be army owned; a remount corral was raided just before I left town. I would not care, just now, to have any army mounts located on this Range—no matter where they were hidden or by whom. If they are there, I want to be the one to find them and return them to the proper owners. It would please certain parties to find stolen stock hereabouts—particularly army. "Now"—he gave an order he obviously expected to be obeyed—"if you do find anything, don’t try to take over yourselves. That’s final. This is nothing to rush into just to burn powder. And above all I want no mixing it up with any army patrol riding south. Do you both understand?" Drew nodded. "Yes, suh," Anse replied promptly. "We jus’ git high behind an’ take care. What the mustangers got to do with this?" "Nothing. Except they can show you the tracks, and with them you can cover a good part of the country in question. There’s been no Apache sign down there, and Running Fox will accompany you—only not so openly as to be noticed." "You think someone may be watchin’ the Stronghold?" Drew asked as he buckled his saddlebags. "I don’t know anything for sure. But a couple of incidents lately have suggested that someone knows a lot more about what’s going on here than I like. It would be easy enough to lie out in the hills and keep field glasses on us down here. And when a man is familiar with the general routine of a place, he can guess a sight too much and too close just by watching the comings and goings. So—you’re going to ride out within the hour and be well along before you camp tonight. We can’t waste time." The nights were chill and the cold made them huddle turtle fashion into the upturned collars of their short riding coats and jam their hats down as far as possible on their heads. Winter breathed across the land now with the coming of dark. They traveled at an angle, the pace set by Teodoro who led a pack mule. Somewhere out there in the dark the Pima Scout was prowling. But he had had his orders: no contact with the three travelers unless there was fear of attack. And both Anse and Drew were alert, knowing that the farther one went from the Stronghold the less one relaxed guard. "Kinda nippy, ain’t it?" Anse said. In the very dim light Drew could just make out that the Texan was holding his gloved hand to his mouth, puffing at the crooked fingers. "Ain’t as bad as ridin’ out a norther, though. I ’mind me how jus’ ’fore th’ war—I was ridin’ for wages for Old Man Shaw then—we had a norther hit. I’m tellin’ you, it was so cold th’ ramrod came out to give th’ mornin’ orders an’ his words, they jus’ naturally froze up solid. Us boys, we hadda go git th’ wood ax an’ chop ’em apart ’fore we knew what we was all to do. Now that’s what I call bein’ cold!" Drew laughed. "Don’t think it ever gets quite that cold hereabouts." It was good being away from the Stronghold, out here with Anse. It was as if he had been let out of lessons, or freed from a sense of duty and responsibility which was a growing burden. "Nope. Texas sure is a lotta country, a whole bag with odds an’ ends stuffed in any which way. ’Course this is new range to me. But what I’ve seen of it, were you jus’ able to run off th’ bandidos an’ git th’ Apaches offen it for good—why, it might be a right respectable sorta territory. A man could carve hisself out a spread as he could brag on." "You’d like it?" Anse blew on his fingers again. "Maybe—all things bein’ considered, as they say. I’ve heard tell as how all a man needs to start his own brand is a loose rope, a runnin’ iron, an’ th’ guts to use them. It’s been done, an’ is bein’ done all th’ time. Only I don’t think as how th’ Old Man would take to havin’ any such big-ideared neighbor here. Not much cattle, though, to interest a wide loop man. Now hosses—everyone says as how they’s plenty of wild stuff. You got you Shiloh, Drew, an’ you said you made a foal deal with th’ Old Man. Git some more good-lookin’ an’ actin’ wild ones an’ you’re in business—runnin’ your Spur R brand. Three-four years, an’ th’ luck a man has always got to hope for, an’ you’ve more’n jus’ a stake—you’ve got roots an’ a spread!" "We have," Drew corrected. "Why’d you suppose I wanted that foal deal? There’s free land to be had in the valley. Some of the ranchers cleared out when the Apaches started raidin’ and they’re not comin’ back. We might look over what Trinfan has picked up as long as we are out here. I know the Old Man hasn’t contracted for anything but gettin’ rid of that Pinto stud. We could make an offer for any good slicks—put the Spur R on them and run them in on the Range. Rennie has already said that’s all right with him." "Whoee!" Anse muffled one of the old spirited war yells into a husky whisper. "You an’ me, we’re goin’ to do it! Ain’t nobody can put hobbles on a pair of Tejanos as has their chewin’ teeth fast on th’ bit!" It was something to think about, all right. But future chances should not take a man’s mind off the job immediately ahead. Only tonight, out here, Drew had a feeling of being able to do anything—from touching the sky with his uplifted hand to fighting Kitchell man to man. That, however, was just what Hunt Rennie did not want and what Drew had promised not to do. Horses to be found back in the rough country, hidden away in the maze of pocket canyons where there was water and enough browning grass to keep them from straying. There must be hundreds of places ready to be used that way. But how come Kitchell could hide out in Apache country? Nothing Drew knew of that tribe fitted in with the idea of a white outlaw band sharing their hunting ground unmolested. It had never mattered to an Apache whether a man rode on the north or south side of the law—if his skin was white, that automatically made him prey. Drew said so now. Teodoro answered that. "Apaches want guns, señor. 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, sí, 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, Señor 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. _ |
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