by Andre Norton
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 withDon Lorenzo and Zack Cahill of the stage line. The Kentuckian went over to them.
“You have come to back your horse, señor?” 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 façade 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. “León Rivas, Bartolomé’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 nod
ded and smiled back.
Some of the noise died. Don Lorenzo pointed a pistol skyward. Drew strove to make his body one with Shiloh’s small easy movements. The big gray knew very well what was in progress, was tensing now for a swift getaway leap. And he made it on the crack of the gun.
But if Shiloh had easily outdistanced all opposition before on those improvised tracks, he was now meeting a far more equal race. The gray colt’s stride was effortless, he was pounding out with power—more than Drew had ever known him to exert. Yet those golden legs matched his pace, reach for reach, hoofbeat for hoofbeat.
“Come on, boy!” Drew’s urging was lost in the wild shouting of the spectators. Some who were mounted were trying to parallel the runners. But Shiloh responded to his rider’s encouragement even if he could not hear or understand. Drew would never use quirt or spur on the stud. What Shiloh had to give must come willingly and because he delighted in the giving.
They swept in and around the shade of the tree, made the arc to return. That golden head with its tossing crown of black forelock; it was slipping back! Oro was no longer nose to nose with Shiloh, rather now nose to neck. Drew could hear Rivas’ voice encouraging, pleading.…
A mass of men, mounted and on foot, funneled the runners down to where the line of rope lay straight to mark the finish. Oro was creeping up once more, inch by hard-won inch.
Drew’s head went up, his throat was rasped raw by the Yell which had taken desperate gray-coated troopers down hedge-bordered roads in Kentucky and steep ravines in Tennessee, sending them, if need be, straight into the mouths of Yankee field guns. And the Yell brought Shiloh home, only a nose ahead of his rival—as if he had been spurred by the now outlawed war cry. Then Drew found he had his hands full trying to pull up the colt and persuade him that the race was indeed over.
CHAPTER 5
A black mule came up beside Drew as he slowly pulled Shiloh down to a canter. Fenner, a wide grin splitting his beard, bellowed:
“That shore was a race! Need any help, son?”
Drew shook his head, wanting to bring Shiloh under full control at a rate which would quiet the colt before they headed back to the furor about the finish line. And only now did he have time to relish his own excited pride and pleasure.
Since he had first seen Shiloh on that scouting trip back to Kentucky in ’64, he had known he must someday own the gray colt. He had lain out in the brush for a long time that morning to watch the head groom of Red Springs put the horse through his paces in the training paddock. And watching jealously, Drew had realized that Shiloh was one of those mounts that a man discovers only once in his life-time, though he may breed and love their kind all his years.
Drew would have been content with Shiloh as a mount and a companion, but now he was sure that the colt was more, so much more. This gray was going to be one of the Great Ones, a racer and a sire—to leave his mark in horse history and stamp his own quality on foals throughout miles and years in this southwestern land. Drew licked the grit of dust from his lips, filled his lungs with a deep breath as Shiloh turned under rein pressure.
It was a long time before the Kentuckian was able to separate Shiloh from his ring of new admirers and bring him back to the stable. Drew refused several offers for the colt, some of them so fantastic he could only believe their makers sun-touched or completely carried away by the excitement of the race.
But when he found Don Cazar waiting for him at Kells’, he guessed that this was serious.
“You do not wish to sell him, I suppose?” Hunt Rennie smiled at Drew’s prompt shake of head. “No, that would be too much to hope for, you are not a fool. But I have something else to suggest. Reese Topham tells me you are looking for work, preferably with horses. Well, I have a contract to gentle some remounts for the army, and I need some experienced men to help break them—”
Drew could not understand the sudden pinch of—could it be alarm? Here it was: a chance to work on the Range, to know Hunt Rennie, and learn whether Don Cazar was to remain a legend or become a father. But now he was not sure.
“I’m no breaker, suh. I’ve gentled, yes—but eastern style.”
“Breaking horses can be brutal, though we don’t ride with red spurs on the Range. Suppose we try some of the eastern methods and see how they work on our wild ones. Do you think you can do it?”
“A man can’t tell what he can do until he tries.” Drew still hedged.
There was a trace of frown now between Rennie’s brows. “You told Topham you wanted work.” His tone implied that he found Drew’s present hesitancy odd. And—fromDon Cazar’s point of view—it was. Tubacca was still in a slump; the rest of the valley held about as many jobs for a man as Drew had fingers on one hand. The Range was the big holding, and to ride there meant security and an established position in the community. Also, perhaps it was not an offer lightly made to an unknown newcomer.
“I can’t promise you blue-grass training, suh. That has to begin with a foal.” He hoped Rennie would credit his wavering to a modest appraisal of his own qualifications.
“Blue-grass training?”
As his father repeated the expression Drew realized the slip of tongue he had made. And if he took the job, there might be other slips, perhaps far more serious ones. But to refuse, after Topham had spoken for him…he was caught in a pinch with cause for suspicion closing in on either side.
“I was in Kentucky for about a year after the war. I went to stay with a friend—”
“But you are from Texas?”
Was Rennie watching him too intently? No, he must ride a tighter rein on his imagination. There was no reason in the wide world why Don Cazar should expect him to be anyone except Drew Kirby.
“Yes, suh. Didn’t have anythin’ to go back to there. Thought I’d try for a new start out here.” There was the story of several thousand veterans. Rennie should have heard it a good many times already.
“Well, come and try some blue-grass training on our colts. And should you let this stud of yours run with a picked manada of mares, I could promise good fees.”
“Suppose I said yes if the fees were some of the foals—of my own choosing, suh?” Drew asked.
Rennie ran a finger across the brand which scarred the gray’s hide. “Spur R—that’s a new one to me.”
“My own. Heard tell as how there’s a custom of the country that a slick this old can be branded and claimed by anyone bringing him in. I wasn’t going to lose him that way should he do any straying, accidental or intentional.”
Don Cazar laughed. “That’s using your head, Kirby. All right. It’s a deal as far as I’m concerned. You draw wrangler’s pay and take stud fees in foals—say one in three, your choosing. Register that brand of yours with Don Lorenzo to be on the safe side. Then you’re welcome to run Spur R with the Double R on the Range.”
He held out his hand, and Drew grasped it for a quick shake to seal their agreement. He was committed now—to the Range and to a small partnership with its master. But he still wondered if he had made the right choice.
Two days later he dropped bedroll and saddlebags on the spare bunk at one end of the long adobe-walled room and studied his surroundings with deep curiosity. It was a fort, all right, this whole stronghold of Rennie’s—not just the bunkhouse which formed part of a side wall. Bunkhouse, feed store, and storage room, blacksmith shop, cookhouse, stables, main house, the quarters for the married men and their families—all arranged to enclose a patio into which choice stock could be herded at the time of an attack, with a curbed well in the center.
The roofs of all the buildings were flat, with loopholed parapets to be manned at need. A sentry post on the main house was occupied twenty-four hours a day by relays of Pimas. A loaded rifle leaned at every window opening, ready to be fired through loopholes in the wooden war shutters. The walls were twenty-five inches thick, and mounted on the roof of the stable, facing the hills from which Apache attacks usually came, was a small brass cannon—DonCazar’s legacy from t
roops marching away in ’61.
What he saw of the resources of this private fort led Drew to accept the other stories he had heard of the Range, like the one that Don Cazar’s men practiced firing blindfolded at noise targets to be prepared for night raids. The place was self-contained and almost self-supporting, with stores of food, good water, its own forge and leather shop, its own craftsmen and experts. No wonder the Apaches had given up trying to break this Anglo outpost and Rennie had accomplished what others found impossible. He had held his land secure against the worst and most unbeatable enemy this country had nourished.
There were other Range forts, smaller, but as stoutly and ingeniously designed, each built beside a water source on Rennie land—defense points for Don Cazar’s riders, their garrisons rotated at monthly intervals. And Drew had to thank that system for having taken Johnny Shannon away from the Stronghold before the Kentuckian arrived. Rennie’s foster son was now riding inspection between one water-hole fortification and another. But Drew was uncertain just how he would rub along with Shannon in the future.
“Señor Kirby, Don Cazar—he would speak with you in the Casa Grande,” León Rivas called through one of the patio side windows.
“Coming.” Drew left the huddle of his possessions on the bunk.
The Casa Grande of the Stronghold was a high-ceilinged, five-room building about sixty feet long, the kitchen making a right angle to the other rooms and joining the smoke house to form part of another wall for the patio. Mesquite logs, adze-hewn and only partially smoothed, were placed over the doorways, and the plank doors themselves were slung on hand-wrought iron hinges or on leather straps, from oak turning-posts. Drew knocked on the age-darkened surface of the big door.
“Kirby? Come in.”
Here in contrast to the brilliant sunlight of the patio was a dusky coolness. There were no glass panes in the windows. Manta, the unbleached muslin which served to cover such openings in the frontier ranches, was tacked taut, allowing in air but only subdued light. The walls had been smoothly plastered, and as in Topham’s office, lengths of colorful woven materials and a couple of Navajo blankets served as hangings. Rugs of cougar and wolf skin were scattered on the beaten earth of the floor. There was a tall carved cupboard with a grilled door, a bookcase, and two massive chests shoved back against the walls. And over the stone mantel of the fireplace hung a picture of a morose-looking, bearded man wearing a steel breastplate, the canvas dim and dark with age and smoke.
