by Andre Norton
“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 flo
or 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.
CHAPTER 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.
