Three good strides one way, four another to measure the cell. Morning sun, gone by noon, daylight outside the window becoming dusk in turn. They fed him army rations, delivered under guard. And the guard never spoke. There was no use asking questions, and Drew had none left to ask, anyway. Except, by the morning of the second day after Rennie’s visit, his wonder grew. Why was Bayliss delaying a formal charge against him? This wait could mean that the captain was not finding it so easy to prove he really did have a "renegade horse thief" in custody. But Drew knew he must pin no hopes on a thread that fine.
What had happened to Anse? And Shannon—gone to Mexico? He must have ridden back with the Coronel. Drew could expect nothing more from Rennie, or Topham. The Trinfans? Spath had marched them back, too, along with his prisoner, but the lieutenant had not had them under arrest. The mustangers were well known in this district and could prove their reason for being where they were found. And Kitchell had raided one of their corrals last season, so they had no possible tie with the elusive outlaw. Probably by now the Trinfans had returned to their hunt for the Pinto.
No, there was no use thinking that anyone was going to get him out of this—no one but himself, and he had bungled badly so far. Drew, his body tired with pacing the small cell, flung himself down on the bunk and listened to the sounds of the camp. He had pretty well worked out the routine by those sounds. The camp itself was a makeshift affair. Its core, of which this cell was a part, was an old ranch building. There were tents and a few lean-tos, on a plateau bounded on the east by a ravine, on the west by a creek bottom. Huts of stone, rawhide, and planks served as officers’ quarters. In fact it was no more a fort than the bivouacs he had known during the war. Unfortunately this room was the most substantial part.
If he could only get out, and pick up his horses, then perhaps he could head for Mexico. There was a war on down there; a soldier could find an anonymous refuge in a foreign army. Shelby’s whole Confederate command had crossed the Rio Grande to do just that. That part was easy. To get out of here—that was what he could not accomplish.
Two men always came together when they fed him, and they didn’t open the cell door, but just pushed the plate through. A sentry was on duty outside. Drew could beat time to the sound of those footfalls day and night. And suppose he did get free of the cell; he would have to have a horse, supplies, arms....
Drew rolled over on the cot and buried his face on his folded arms. He might as well try to get out of here by using will power alone to turn locks! They left the lantern burning all night to keep a light on him, and the sentry looked in the peephole every time he passed.
The Kentuckian did not know just when it was that he became conscious of the noise overhead. Lizards—maybe even rats—could move about the beams, hidden by the age-browned manta strips. But surely this was too late in the season for a lizard to be so lively by night when the temperature dropped with the rapidity of a weight plunging earth-ward. And rats aloft....
Drew did not change his position on the bunk, but his body tensed. No rat would stay in one place, gnawing with such purpose and concentration at a spot in the darkest corner of the cell roof. Anse? How or why the Texan could be at work there, Drew did not know. But that there was a stealthy attempt being made to reach him from above he was now sure.
His teeth closed on his wrist as he lay listening, to that scratching above, to the regular advance and retreat of the sentry. He heard the man pause by the door and knew he was under inspection. Well, let the Yankee look! He would see his prisoner peacefully sleeping.
Now the trooper was moving on, the noise above became sharper. There was a slight crackle. The linen roofing sagged under a burden, and Drew caught his breath in a gasp. Miraculously the yellow cloth supported the object—a bulge as big as a saddlebag. A portion of the roof which had given way?
The scratching, which had stilled, began again. Then the bulge was gone, pulled away from above. Dust sprinkled down from the disturbed manta. In the next instant Drew moved.
Using his hands on either side of his body, he raked up the straw which filled the box bunk. In a swift moment, timed to the sentry’s passing to the farthest point from the spy hole, the Kentuckian rolled to the floor, slapped and pulled the blanket into place over the mounded straw. Not too good—it certainly would not fool any inspection within the room. But in the lantern light and this far from the door, the improvised dummy might satisfy the glance of the sentry for some precious seconds.
Drew was across the cell, flattened against the wall under the still quivering strip of material. More bulges appeared and disappeared, fragments fallen and retrieved. Then a sharp point pierced downward, the tip of a knife slitting the tough stuff. A slash, and the manta peeled back against the wall of the cell.
"Señor—?" It was so faint a whisper Drew hardly caught it.
"Yes!" He looked up with desperate eagerness into what he had hoped to see—the dark splotch of a hole.
A rawhide lariat smoothly braided, oiled into supple silkiness, dangled through. Drew got his hands on it, pulled it back against the wall as the sentry returned. He held his breath during that pause beside the spy hole, a pause which lengthened alarmingly. Then his body jerked in answer to a sound a half second before he realized what manner of sound. The sentry had sneezed. He sniffled, too, loudly; then he went on to complete his beat. The blanket and the straw—they had worked!
Drew pulled at the lariat, was answered by a return jerk. He jumped and began to climb. Then, with a wrench he was through the hole, other hands helping to pull.
"Come—pronto!" The hands were pushing, urging. He wriggled forward. Teodoro Trinfan! But why?
There was no time to ask; Drew could only obey directions. They made a worm’s progress along the full length of the old ranch building, and dropped the lariat for a ladder to the ground. They crossed the small part of the camp near the ravine with the same caution they had used on the roof.
"Señor..." Teodoro’s lips were at Drew’s ear as the boy pressed against him in a thin cover of shadow. "Left—a big stone—put your hands on it—swing about and down."
Drew had to take that on blind trust. He had no idea what kind of a drop waited below, and only by firm will power did he follow orders. But his boot soles met a solid surface. Then he was caught about the waist and Hilario’s voice whispered to him.
"Señor, you stand—so." Hands fumbled about him, looping him with a supporting lariat. "Now—we go! Your hand, señor." Drew’s left hand was caught in a tight grip which pulled him to the right, face to the wall. So secured, he inched along what he knew must be the face of the ravine, his toes on some small ledge midway between lip and foot.
Somehow the three of them reached ground level, their diagonal course of descent putting some distance between them and the camp. In spite of the cold of the night, Drew was wet with sweat as they threaded through heady sage brush. Now came the scent of horses, the sound of a hoof stamped impatiently on gravel.
"Trinfan?"
Topham! Here?
"Sí."
At Hilario’s hissed assent, a figure detached itself from the utter black of the bushes and moved forward into a sliver of moonlight.
"You got him?"
"I’m here, if that’s what you mean!" Drew answered for himself.
"And you’ll be gone, soon," the gambler replied. "But there’s one thing I have to know, Kirby. Were you telling the truth to Rennie—do you believe Johnny took your papers?"
What had that to do with the matter at hand? Drew wondered. But from the urgency of the demand he knew it did mean a great deal to Topham.
"Yes, I’m sure. But I can’t prove it—unless I find them with him. He may have destroyed them already." Drew put into words the black foreboding which had ridden him for days.
"Why? What do they mean to him?"
Evasions and lies had gotten him into this mess; now he would see what stark truth would do.
"Because there were two letters—proof I’m Drew Rennie."
"Rennie?" Topham repeated. In the light Drew could not see his expression, but his voice was that of a completely baffled man. "Rennie?"
"I’m Hunt Rennie’s son." There, he had said it—and nothing startling happened. Well, what had he expected—a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning, the sudden appearance of a cavalry patrol across the nearest hilltop?
"So that’s it!" Topham said slowly. "And Shannon suspected? But why the mystery? And——"
Drew took the questions in turn. "Shannon was at the Jacks when I met Anse. I thought he was unconscious, but he probably wasn’t. Anse called me by my right name. As for why—my father doesn’t know I’m alive. He was told I died at birth, along with my mother. They told me he was killed in the Mexican War before I was born. It was all because of an old family feud—too long a story to tell now. I’ve only known for about a year I had a father here in Arizona ... but to make a claim on him, after all these years.... Maybe you don’t understand why I didn’t want to." He was telling it badly, but he’d been a fool about this from the start.
"Understand ... yes, I think I can. There’s a certain strain of bull-headed independence common to Rennies—I’ve met it head-on several times myself. And your choice was your own to make. But this ... yes, it is just the move Shannon would make, given suspicion to push him into action. And now it may be pushing him even farther."
Drew was a little bewildered by Topham’s ready acceptance of his story without any proof. But the tone of the last remark caught his full attention.
"What d’ you mean? What’s happened now?"
"I’ve had suspicions, pretty nasty ones, for some time. But I had your trouble—no proof. In the last three days I’ve picked up and sorted out a few very wild cards, and now they make a pat hand. Kitchell has had his contact here-abouts, all right, just as Bayliss has always insisted."
"You can’t mean Shannon!"
"Johnny Shannon. And if he’s doing what I think he is...." Topham paused. When he continued he had changed the subject. "Last night Nye rode up from the Range. Said that Kitchell made a raid, almost a clean sweep. Among other stock he gathered up was that prize stud of yours."
"Shiloh!"
And Shannon had the horse papers! The Kentuckian was thinking fast now.
"Yes, if Shannon is riding with Kitchell, now he can prove ownership of that stud and sell him anywhere without trouble." Topham could have been reading Drew’s mind. "But that’s not as important as something else. Hunt went hell-bent-for-leather out of here. He’ll gather up that private army of his and try to trail the raiders. Maybe Kitchell will ride south, or maybe he’ll head directly back into Apache country. Either way that trail’s going to be as easy for anyone after him as walking barefoot through a good roaring fire! Hunt still has blind faith in Johnny.... I was hoping you could help break that."
"That why you got me out of the camp?" Drew asked.
"Partly. Hunt told me what you said about Johnny taking your papers. I had you sized up as being too smart to make a claim like that unless you really believed it. And I thought maybe you could prove it, given a chance. If you can get to Hunt now ... tell him the real truth before Johnny rigs something of a double-cross...."
"Would he believe me any more than he did when I accused Shannon?" Drew asked bleakly. "I’ll head south, all right. Nobody’s goin’ to lift Shiloh and get away with it as long as I’m able to fork a saddle and push. But if you’re countin’ on my bein’ able to influence my—my father"—he stumbled over the word awkwardly—"don’t!"
"I’m counting on nothing," Topham returned. "Just hoping now. For a long time we’ve heard about Johnny Shannon being a young hothead who found it hard to settle down after the war. I think there are two Johnnys and we are just beginning to know the real one. You could be his prime target now."
"Fair of you to point that out." Drew thought that at last he had found a real motive for Topham’s services. "I’m likely to be bait, ain’t that the truth of it?"
"If you are, the trap is going to be there. But now ... get away from here. Teodoro will ride with you as guide."
"And the army after me. That’s it!" Drew had mounted. "That’s what you want, isn’t it? Me to pull the troops south? Huntin’ down an escaped horse thief they might slam into Kitchell...."
What a trick! Topham had planned it without asking Drew’s support. But it called for enough audacity, luck, and nerve to be appealing. During the war the Kentuckian had seen such schemes win out time and time again.
"Why ain’t Bayliss already ridin’?" he asked. "Hasn’t he heard about the raid?"
"He’s been heard to say a man can raid his own stock as a cover-up."
"What’s wrong with him? Is he deaf, dumb, and blind!"
"No, just prejudiced and ridden by envy until he’s not able to think straight any more. But he’ll track you and follow quick enough!"
"He sure will. All right ... we ride."
They did, Drew depending on the younger Trinfan’s guidance. And, while Teodoro set a meandering trail, it was not one which a determined pursuer would have too much trouble following, come sunup or whenever that sentry discovered he was guarding a straw prisoner.
Once when they pulled up to breathe their horses, dismounting to loose cinches and cool the backs of the mounts, Drew indulged his curiosity further.
"How come you knew just where to make that hole to let me out?"
Teodoro laughed. "That was easy, señor. That was the Garza Rancho—only six months has the army been there. Many times we have camped within its walls when we brought in the best of the wild catch for sale. I know those buildings very well. When Señor Topham tells my father what must be done, we could plan well and quickly. I have heard what you said to Señor Topham, that you are the son of Don Cazar. Why did he not know of this? Why have you never lived here with him?"
"He didn’t know I was alive, and I didn’t know that he was. My grandfather—my mother’s father—he hated Don Cazar very much, because of a duel and other things. So my father took my mother away secretly, brought her to Texas when they were both very young. Then Don Cazar went to war and the news came that he had been killed. My grandfather went to Texas and took my mother home with him. She died a few months later, when I was born.
"It was only after my grandfather died, two years ago, that letters from my father were found among his private papers. These I discovered when I came home from the war, learning that my father was alive and here in Arizona. Only we were strangers ... I did not know whether he would like me for a son, or whether I wanted a stranger for a father. So, when I came here I took the name of my compadre, my friend from the war, Anse Kirby. I wanted to know my father before I made my claims."
"And Señor Juanito—for this he will hate you!"
"Because I did not tell who I was at the start?" Drew asked.
"No—because you are truly Don Cazar’s son. Always Don Cazar, he treated Señor Juanito as a son, but I do not think that was enough. Señor Juanito, he is one who must have everything, all. Even when he was a boy, he was like that. Bartolomé Rivas, he braids beautiful ropes, and he made one for Juanito. Always I wanted a rope like that. I would watch Juanito use it and wish. Then once we spend Christmas at the Stronghold ... it was after my father was hurt and Don Cazar had us to stay there so he could tend my father’s wounds. Had he been with us when the wild ones stampeded, my father would not walk crooked, but we got him back to the ranch too late. But that is not what I would say. It was Christmas and Don Cazar gave to me a rope like that of Juanito, a fine rope which felt as if it was a part of a man’s own arm when he swung it. Two days later, that rope, it was gone, never did I find it. But I knew—I had seen Juanito watching me when I tried that fine rope. And I knew his thoughts: no one must have a rope as good as Juanito’s! Not long after that he ran away, to join the army. But really that was because Don Cazar caught him beating one of the Indios. Only that is not generally known. The Indio was being taught by Don Cazar to have charge of the grain storage, and Juanito thought that Indios are as dirt—should have no place among Anglos. Señor Juanito would hate with a black hate anyone who had a right to be a son at the Stronghold, a better right than he could claim. He must always be on top, at the head. Sometimes it would seem that he would, if he could, push aside Don Cazar himself.... Now I think we should ride again."
By dawn Drew had no idea where they were except that they pushed south. Whether they were now on the Range he did not know. And how in the immensity of this hostile country, they could fulfill Topham’s hopes and lead the troop patrol to Rennie’s posse, was something the Kentuckian did not even try to answer. The border lay south. If Kitchell had made such a sweeping raid, he would be certain to run the animals in that direction, for the outlaw was fully aware of Rennie’s reputation and temper, and knew that Don Cazar would trail him with set determination.
This meant the outlaw must have set up some plan for avoiding pursuit. Rouse the Apaches? Or prepare an ambush? Either could work. Then Bayliss’ men could be a saving factor. If the Kentuckian could locate Rennie, and ride in to his camp—or skulk close enough to it—that should bring the troops down.
But where was Anse? The Texan had not simply cleared out because of imminent trouble, Drew was sure of that. Had he followed Shannon to Mexico? This was one time when Drew could well understand the exasperation and frustration felt by an officer whose scouts did not report in as ordered and who had no idea of the disposition of reinforcements. Talk about going into something blind! But still he rode at a steady, mile-covering pace southward.
