The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  “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?”

  “Sí. 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, señor. 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!”

  “Señor, 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.

  “Sí. 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.

  “Señor, 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, sí, 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—the
y’re gone!” Drew rummaged frantically, turning the pocket inside out. When—who?

  “What papers, compadrê?”

  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.

  CHAPTER 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.

  So here he was now—just where Bayliss had promised to see him—in an army detention cell, with no proof of identity and the circumstantial evidence against him piling up by the minute. All they needed was some definite proof to tie him to Kitchell and he was lost. He had to pin his hopes on Anse—and Don Cazar.

  Drew ground his boot heel into the dirt floor. That was just what he had sworn he would never do—call upon Hunt Rennie for help. Especially now, since the troopers had discovered those army-branded horses back in the canyon and Bayliss would try to use that against Rennie. Anse’s escape had been a short-sighted solution, Drew knew. To the captain such action only tied the Range in deeper. The Kentuckian ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think of something which had not gone wrong.

  The plank door banged open and Drew’s head came up with a snap. No use letting these Yankees think they had him worried. The lantern, feeble as it was, picked out the stripes on the blouse of the first man, the tin plate in the hands of the second.

  Drew looked down at the plate as it was slid under the bars and across the floor of his cell.

  “Stew, Sergeant? Ain’t that overfeedin’? Thought bread and water was more the captain’s style for Reb prisoners.” Drew was pleased that he was able to sound unconcerned.

 
“Cocky one, ain’t you?” asked the man who had brought in the plate. “All you Rebs is alike—never know when you’re licked—”

  “Get along, Farley, that’s enough,” Muller broke in.

  Drew picked up the plate and forced himself to spoon up its contents. The stuff was still warm and not too bad. After the second spoonful he discovered that he was hungry—that much he would not have to pretend.

  “Kid!”

  Sergeant Muller’s bulk shut most of the lantern glow out of the cell.

  “You young squirts’re all alike—never take no advice. But I’m gonna give it, anyway. When th’ cap’n sees you, you button your lip! He ain’t one as takes kindly to no smart talkin’, ’specially not from a prisoner. As far as he’s concerned he’s got you about dead to rights—hoss thievin’ from th’ army.”

  “I’d like to know what proof he has,” Drew returned sharply. “Your patrol picked me up well away from those horses—in the mustanger camp where I was workin’—and Captain Bayliss can’t prove that’s not true, either. Anyway, what difference does it make to you, Sergeant?”

  “Since you ask, I don’t rightly know, kid. Maybe you was spoilin’ for a fight in th’ Jacks an’ did push our boys—”

  “But you don’t think so, Sergeant.” Drew put the plate on the bunk and stood up to approach the bars. Muller was the taller; the Kentuckian had to raise his eyes to meet the sergeant’s. The trooper’s face was mostly in the shadow, but it was plain the man did not mean him any ill.

  “I got m’ reasons.” Muller did not make any straighter answer. “But you think o’ what th’ cap’n does know about you, kid. You go ridin’ ’round with gold on you—more money than any drifter ever sees in ten years or more. You’re caught near where some stolen army stock is stashed away, an’ your partner lights out hell-for-leather, breaking through army lines. An’ we only got your story as to who you really are. I ask you—does that read good in the lieutenant’s report when th’ cap’n gets it?”