by Andre Norton
He picked up a borrowed coat, also much too wide for him, pulled it on over the bunchiness of his shirt, and followed her, swallowing what he knew to be a useless protest.
The parlor was as bright with sun as the upper room had been. As Drew entered a pace or two behind Cousin Merry, the officer in blue strode away from the hearth to meet them. But Aunt Marianna forestalled her husband’s greeting, rising suddenly from a chair, her crinoline rustling across the carpet. She held out her hands, and then hesitated, studying Drew’s face, looking a little daunted, as if she had expected something she did not find. The assurance she had displayed at their last meeting on the Lexington road was missing.
“Drew?”
He bowed, conscious that he must present an odd figure in the ill-fitting clothing of Meredith Barrett’s long dead husband.
Major Forbes held out his hand. “Welcome home, my boy.”
My boy. Consciously or unconsciously the major’s tone strove to thrust Drew into the past, or so he believed. The major might almost be considering Drew an unruly schoolboy now safely out of some scrape, welcome indeed if he would settle down quietly into the conventional mold of Oak Hill or Red Springs. But he was no schoolboy, and at that moment the parlor of Oak Hill, for all its luxury and warmth, was a box sealing him in stifling confinement which he could no longer endure. Drew held tight control over that resurgence of his old impatience, knowing that his first instinct had been right: the old life fitted him now no better than his coat. But he answered civilly:
“Thank you, suh.”
His proper courtesy apparently reassured his aunt. She came to him, her hands on his shoulders as she stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. “Drew, come home with us, dear—please!”
He shook his head. “I don’t belong at Red Springs, ma’am. I never did.”
“Nonsense!” Major Forbes put the force of a field officer’s authority into that denial. “I do not and never did agree with many of Alexander Mattock’s decisions. I do so even less when they pertain to your situation, my boy. You have every right to consider Red Springs your home. You must come to us, resume your interrupted education, take your proper place in the family and the community—”
Drew shook his head again. The major paused. He had been studying Drew, and now there was a faint shadow of uneasiness in his own expression. He might be slowly realizing that he was not fronting a repentant schoolboy rescued from a piece of regrettable youthful folly. A veteran was being forced against his will to recognize the stamp of his own experience on another, if much younger, man.
“What are your plans?” he asked in another tone of voice entirely.
“Drew—” Major Forbes waved aside that tentative interruption from Cousin Merry.
“I don’t know. But I can’t stay here.” That much he was sure of, Oak Hill, Red Springs, all of this was no longer necessary to him any more than the outgrown toys of childhood could hold the interest of a man. Once, hurt and seeking for freedom, he had thought of the army as home. Now he knew he had yet to find what he wanted or needed. But there was no reason why he could not go looking, even if he could not give a name to the object of such a search. “I might go west. It’s all new out there, a good place to start on my own.”
There was a catch of breath from Aunt Marianna. The look she gave Cousin Merry held something of accusation. “You told him!”
“Told me what, ma’am?”
“That your father is alive.…” She saw his surprise.
“Is that true, suh?” Drew appealed to the major.
Forbes scowled, tugging at the belt supporting his saber. “Yes. We found some letters among your grandfather’s papers after his death. Your father wasn’t killed; he was in a Mexican prison during the war. When he escaped and returned to Texas, your grandfather had already been there and taken your mother away. Hunt Rennie was too ill to follow immediately. Before he had recovered enough to travel, he was informed his wife was dead, and he was allowed to believe that you died with her—at birth.”
“But why?” Alexander Mattock had disliked, even hated his grandson. So why should he have lied to keep Drew with him at Red Springs?
“Because of Murray,” Cousin Merry said slowly, sadly. “It was a cruel thing to do, so cruel. Alexander Mattock was a hard man. He couldn’t bear opposition; it made him go close to the edge of sanity, I truly believe. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I can’t forgive him for what he did to those two. Melanie and Hunt were so young, young and in love. And your Uncle Murray deliberately pushed that quarrel on Hunt. Jefferson was there; he tried to stop it. The duel wasnot Hunt’s fault—”
“Uncle Murray and my father fought a duel?” Drew demanded.
“Yes. Murray was badly wounded, and for a time his life was despaired of. Your grandfather swore out a warrant against Hunt for attempted murder! So he and Melanie ran away. They were so pitifully young! Melanie was just sixteen and Hunt two years older, though he seemed a man, having lived such a hard life on the frontier. They went back to Texas, and she was very happy there—I had some letters from her. Yes, she was happy until the War with Mexico began. Then Hunt was reported killed, his father, too. And she was left all alone with distant kin of theirs. So your grandfather went down to fetch her home. I’ll always believe he really wanted to punish her for going against his will. She died—” her voice broke—“she died, because she had no will to live, andthen he was sorry. But just a little, not enough to blame himself any. Oh, no—it was still all Hunt’s wickedness, he said, every bit of it! He was a hard man.…” Cousin Merry faced Aunt Marianna with her chin up as if daring the other to object what she’d just said.
Drew returned to the news he still found difficult to believe. “So my father’s alive, Major. Well, that gives me some place to go—Texas.…”
“Hunt Rennie’s not in Texas.” Cousin Merry spoke with such certainty that all three of them gave her their full attention.
“I married Jefferson Barrett six months after Melanie eloped. We went to Europe then for almost two years of traveling. Part of our mail must have been lost. Hunt surely wrote to me! He liked Jefferson in spite of the differences in their ages. If I had only had the chance to tell him the truth about you, Drew. But I never knew he was alive either. You remember Granger Wood, Justin?”
Major Forbes nodded. “He went out to California in ’50.”
“Yes, and when the war broke out he rode back across the Arizona and New Mexico territories with General Johnston to enlist in the Confederate forces. A month ago he came back here and he called to tell me he saw Hunt in Arizona in ’61. He had a horse-and-cattle ranch there, also some mining holdings.”
“Drew”—Aunt Marianna caught his arm—“you won’t be so foolish as to go out into that horrible wilderness hunting a man who doesn’t even know you’re alive—who’s a perfect stranger to you? You must be sensible. We know that Father’s will was very unjust, and we are not going to abide by its terms—half of Red Springs will be yours.”
Gently Drew released himself from her hold. “Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn’t know I exist; maybe we won’t even like each other if and when we do meet—I don’t know. But Red Springs ain’t my kind of world any more. And I won’t take anything my grandfather grudged givin’ me. I may be young, only in another way, I’m old, too. Too old to come under a schoolin’ rein again.” He glanced across her shoulder, noticing that his speech had registered with the major.
“You’re not goin’ to start out this very afternoon, are you?” Forbes asked.
Drew relaxed and laughed a little self-consciously, knowing that his uncle had ceded him the victory in this first skirmish.
“No, suh. You know, I brought two things home from the army—and one of them was a pair of Texas spurs. A mighty good man wore those. You’d have to ride proud and tall in the saddle to match him. I told him once I was goin’ to see Texas, and he said there was nothing to make a man stay on the range where he had been born. Since I’ve alwa
ys wanted to know what kind of a man Hunt Rennie was—is—now maybe I’m goin’ to do just that.”
REBEL SPURS (1962)
CHAPTER 1
Even the coming of an autumn dusk could not subdue the color of this land. Shadows here were not gray or black; they were violet and purple. The crumbling adobe walls were laced by strings of crimson peppers, vivid in the torch and lantern light. It had been this way for days, red and yellow, violet—colors he had hardly been aware existed back in the cool green, silver, gray-brown of Kentucky.
So this was Tubacca! The rider shifted his weight in the saddle and gazed about him with watchful interest. Back in ’59 this had been a flourishing town, well on its way to prominence in the Southwest. The mines in the hills behind producing wealth, the fact that it was a watering place on two cross-country routes—the one from Tucson down into Sonora of Old Mexico, the other into California—had all fed its growth.
Then the war.… The withdrawal of the army, the invasion of Sibley’s Confederate forces which had reached this far in the persons of Howard’s Arizona Rangers—and most of all the raiding, vicious, deadly, and continual, by Apaches and outlaws—had blasted Tubacca. Now, in the fall of 1866, it was a third of what it had been, with a ragged fringe of dilapidated adobes crumbling back into the soil. Only this heart core was still alive in the dusk.
Smell, a myriad of smells, some to tickle a flat stomach, others to wrinkle the nose. Under the rider the big stud moved, tossed his head, drawing the young man’s attention from the town back to his own immediate concerns. The animal he rode, the two he led were, at first glance, far more noticeable than the dusty rider himself.
His saddle was cinched about the barrel of a big gray colt, one that could not have been more than five years old but showed enough power and breeding to attract attention in any horse-conscious community. Here was a thoroughbred of the same blood which had pounded race tracks in Virginia and in Kentucky to best all comers. Even now, after weeks on the trail, with a day’s burden of alkali dust grimed into his coat, the stud was a beautiful thing. And his match was the mare on the lead rope, plainly a lady of family, perhaps of the same line, since her coat was also silver. She crowded closer, nickered plaintively.
She was answered by an anxious bray from the fourth member of the party. The mule bearing the trail pack was in ludicrous contrast to his own aristocratic companions. His long head, with one entirely limp and flopping ear, was grotesquely ugly, the carcass beneath the pack a bone rack, all sharp angles and dusty hide. Looks, however, as his master could have proven, were deceiving.
“Soooo—” The rider’s voice was husky from swallowing trail grit, but it was tuned to the soothing croon of a practiced horse trainer. “Sooo—lady, just a little farther now, girl.…”
From the one-story building on the rider’s right a man emerged. He paused to light a long Mexican cigarillo, and as he held the match to let the sulfur burn away, his eyes fell upon the stallion. A casual interest tightened into open appreciation as he stepped from under the porch-overhang into the street.
“That is some horse, sir.” His voice was that of an educated gentleman. The lantern at the end of the porch picked out the fine ruffled linen of his shirt, a vest with a painted design of fighting cocks, and the wink of gold buttons. The rather extravagant color of his clothing matched well with the town.
“I think so.” The answer was short and yet not discourteous.
Again the mare voiced her complaint, and the rider turned to the gentleman. “There is a livery stable here, suh?” Unconsciously he reverted in turn to the rather formal speech pattern of another place and time.
The man in the painted vest had transferred his attention from stallion to mare. “Yes. Quickest way is down this alley. Tobe Kells owns it. He’s a tolerable vet, too. She’s near her time, ain’t she?”
“Yes.” The rider raised one finger to the straight wide brim of his low-crowned black hat. He was already turning his mount when the townsman added:
“No hotel here, stranger. But the Four Jacks serves a pretty good meal and keeps a couple of beds for overnighters. You’re welcome back when you’ve settled the little lady. She Virginia stock?”
“Kentucky,” the rider answered, and then his lips tightened into a compressed line. Was it a mistake to admit even that much? He would have to watch every word he said in this town. He tugged gently at the lead rope and walked Shiloh ahead at a pace which did not urge Shadow to any great effort. The mule, Croaker, fell in behind her so that they were strung out in the familiar pattern which had been theirs clear from Texas.
Minutes later her owner was rubbing down the fretful Shadow, murmuring the soothing words to quiet her. The lean, gray-haired man who had ushered them into the stable stood eyeing the mare’s distended sides.
“I’d say, young fellow, you didn’t git her here a mite too soon, no, siree. She’s due right quick. Carryin’ a blood foal, I’m thinkin’—”
“Yes. How soon? Tonight?”
Tobe Kells made a quick examination. The mare, after a first nervous start, stood easy under his sure and gentle hands. “Late, maybe. First foal?”
“Yes.” Her owner hesitated and then added, “You give me a hand with her?”
“You bet, son. She’s a pretty thing, an’ she’s been a far piece, I’d say. Now you looky here, boy—you sure look like you could take some curryin’ an’ corn fodder under your belt too. You git over to th’ Four Jacks. Topham’s got him a Chinee cookin’ there who serves up th’ best danged grub in this here town. Fill up your belly an’ take some ease. Then if we do have this little lady gittin’ us up tonight, you’ll be ready for it. I’ll see t’ th’ stud an’ th’ mule. That colt’s not a wild one.” Kells surveyed Shiloh knowingly. “No, I seed he was gentle-trained when you come in.” He ran his hand down Shiloh’s shoulder, touched the brand. “Spur R? That ain’t no outfit I heard tell of before.”
“From Eastern…Texas—” That much was true. All three animals had been given the brand in the small Texas town where the wagon train had assembled. And perhaps this was the time when he should begin building up the background one Drew Kirby must present to Tubacca, Arizona Territory. “All right, I’ll go eat.” He picked up his saddlebags. “You’ll call me if—”
“Sure, son. Say, I don’t rightly know your name.…”
“Drew Kirby.”
“Wal, sure, Kirby, Tobe Kells is a man o’ his word. Iffen there’s any reason to think you’ll be needed, I’ll send Callie along for you. Callie!”
At Kells’ hail a boy swung down the loft ladder. He was wiry thin, with a thick mop of sun-bleached hair and a flashing grin. At the sight of Shiloh and Shadow he whistled.
“Now ain’t they th’ purtiest things?” he inquired of the stable at large. “’Bout th’ best stock we’ve had here since th’ last time Don Cazar brought in a couple o’ hissen. Where’ll I put your plunder, mister?” He was already loosing Croaker’s pack. “You be stayin’ over to th’ Jacks?”
Drew glanced up at the haymow from which Callie had just descended. “Any reason why I can’t bunk up there?” he asked Kells.
“None ’tall, Kirby, none ’tall. Know you want to be handy like. Stow that there gear up above, Callie, an’ don’t you drop nothin’. Rest yourself easy, son. These here hosses is goin’ to be treated jus’ like th’ good stuff they is.”
“Croaker, also.” Drew stopped by the mule, patted the long nose, gave a flip to the limp ear. “He’s good stuff, too—served in the cavalry.…”
Kells studied the young man by the mule. Cavalry saddle on the stud, two Colt pistols belted high and butt forward, and that military cord on his hat—army boots, too. The liveryman knew the signs. This was not the first veteran to drift into Tubacca; he wouldn’t be the last either. Seems like half of both them armies back east didn’t want to go home an’ sit down peaceful like now that they was through wi’ shootin’ at each other. No, siree, a right big herd o’ ’em was trailin’
out here. An’ he thought he could put name to the color of coat this young’un had had on his back, too. Only askin’ more than a man volunteered to tell, that warn’t neither manners nor wise.
“He gits th’ best, too, Kirby.” Kells shifted a well-chewed tobacco cud from one cheek to the other.
He could trust Kells, Drew thought. A little of his concern over Shadow eased. He shouldered the saddlebags and made his way back down the alley, beginning to see the merit in the liveryman’s suggestions. Food—and a bath! What he wouldn’t give for a bath! Hay to sleep on was fine; he had had far worse beds during the past four years. But a hot bath to be followed by a meal which was not the jerky, corn meal, bitter coffee of trail cooking! His pace quickened into a trot but slackened again as he neared the Four Jacks and remembered all the precautions he must take in Tubacca.
In the big room of the cantina oil lamps made yellow pools of light. The man in the painted vest was seated at a table laying out cards in a complicated pattern of a solitaire game. And at one side a round-faced Mexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across one plump knee, now and then plucking absent-mindedly at a single string as he stared raptly into space. A third man stood behind the bar polishing thick glasses.
“Greetings!” As Drew stood blinking just within the doorway the card player rose. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, a little too thin for his height. Deep lines in his clean-shaven face bracketed his wide mouth. His curly hair was a silvery blond, and he had dark, deeply set eyes. “I’m Reese Topham, owner of this oasis,” he introduced himself.
“Drew Kirby.” He must remember that always—he was Drew Kirby, a Texan schooled with kinfolk in Kentucky, who served in the war under Forrest and was now drifting west, as were countless other rootless Confederate veterans. Actually the story was close enough to the truth. And he had had months on the trail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, then on to Tucson, to study up on any small invented details. He was Drew Kirby, Texan, not Drew Rennie of Red Springs, Kentucky.
