"Times is gittin’ better." Crow Fenner rode with one knee cocked up over the horn of his saddle, allowing Tar to drop into a pace at which he seemed to be actually sleep-walking. The wagon train was traveling slow, the wagons riding heavy in the ruts with their burden of northern goods heading south. But they were strung in good order and Drew, having seen the screen of outriders and Pima Scouts, thought that though they offered temptation, they were not to be easily taken by anything less than a small troop, very well armed and reckless.
"Yes, siree, this here’s th’ second time we made th’ trip through without havin’ to burn up a sight of gunpowder! Guess them army boys millin’ around back an’ forth across th’ territory do some good, after all. Pretty soon there won’t be no need for wearin’ guns loose an’ tryin’ to grow eyes in th’ back of yore skull!" But Fenner’s own rifle still rode on guard across his knees, and Drew noted that the scout never broke a searching survey of the countryside.
"Gittin’ downright civilized, eh?" Anse brought his mount up equal with the other two.
Fenner spat. "Now that thar I ain’t cottonin’ to none. Ride ’long without some Injun or bandido poppin’ lead at m’back. Yep, that’s what a man kin enjoy. But I ain’t takin’ to have maybe one o’ them thar engine trains snortin’ out dirty smoke an’ sparks hereabouts. Took me a ride on one of them things onct—never agin! Why a man wants to git hisself all stuck up with cinders an’ cover territory faster than th’ Good Lord ever intended him to travel—that’s some stupid thinkin’ I can’t take to. A good hoss, maybe a wagon, does a man want to do some tradin’ like Don Cazar—that’s right enough. But them trains, they’s pure pizen an’ a full soppin’ keg o’ it!"
Drew looked about him. The road, rutted deep by the heavy wagons, curled southward. Those wheel tracks had first been cut almost a hundred years earlier when the Spaniards had set up their southwestern outposts. This country was far older than Kentucky, and with just as bloody a history of wars, raids, and battles. Kentucky had been tamed; trains did puff along through the Blue Grass and the mountains there. But here—he shook his head in answer to his own thoughts.
"Ain’t nobody gonna try to run a railroad through here," Anse replied promptly. "First place, they’re gonna be busy for a while back east puttin’ up new ones for all them what were busted up in th’ war. Our boys an’ theirs, too, got real expert toward th’ end—could heat up a rail an’ tie a regular noose in it, were some tree handy to rope it ’round. Gonna take th’ Yankees some doin’ to git all them back into place." He laughed. "Drew, ’member that time we took them river steamers an’ had us a real feed? Times when I was in that Yankee stockade eatin’ th’ swill they called rations I used to dream ’bout them pickles an’ canned peaches an’ crackers with long sweetin’ poured on ’em!"
"Heard tell as you boys don’t think th’ war’s clear over yet," Fenner observed. "Didn’t you have yoreselves a ruckus with th’ soldiers at th’ Four Jacks?"
Drew’s reminiscent smile faded. But he was not going to keep on protesting about the right or wrong of what happened back in town. The way Nye and Topham had hustled Anse and him out with the wagon train had made it seem as if they were in disgrace, and that rankled a lot. What was expected of them—that they should have let Helms pour it on—maybe serve as butts for a series of practical jokes without raising a finger in their own defense? On the other hand, the Kentuckian could see the sense behind Topham’s arguments. If Bayliss wanted to use Drew’s connection with the Range as a weapon in some scheme against Hunt Rennie, then Hunt Rennie’s son was only too willing to clear out. Perhaps he should clear out even farther and head for California. Drew began to think about that. There was Sage. She couldn’t hope to make such a trip for maybe six months. That would mean putting off traveling until next spring or early summer. But six months ... Of course, he could go now. Don Cazar would buy the foal and Shadow, too, and give him a fair price. That would be relinquishing a dream. No Spur R brand would ever be established here in Arizona. But sometimes dreams were priced too high....
"You’re mighty grim-mouthed," Anse commented, glancing at Drew sideways. "Thinkin’ of trains runnin’ through here git you down that far? Or else that roughenin’ up you took in town still sit sour on your stomach?"
"Sits sour all right," Drew admitted. "Sits sourer to think we were suckered into it."
The scout glanced from one to the other of the young men.
"You think there’s somethin’ in all that talk Topham was givin’ lip to?" Anse asked.
"Could be. Can’t say as how I’d like to find out the truth. Look here, Fenner, we’ve heard a lot about Captain Bayliss wantin’ to make trouble for Don Cazar. Does everybody believe that?"
"Everybody wot ain’t blind, deef, or outta their natural-born wits," Fenner replied. "Bayliss come out here two years ago. ’Fore that, Major Kenny, he was in command between here an’ Tucson. Had him an outpost right on th’ edge o’ th’ Range. Him an’ Don Cazar, they never talked no war, ’cept ’gainst Apaches an’ th’ bandidos. Was there a raid, th’ major, he took out th’ troops; and Don Cazar, he took out his riders an’ th’ Pimas. ’Tween ’em they give everybody wot wanted a spot of trouble all they could chew off an’ a lot more’n they could swallow. Kept things quiet even if a man hadda rest his hand on his rifle ’bout twenty-four hours outta every day.
"But this here Bayliss—he’s been like a mule with a burr under his tail ever since he hit th’ territory. Wants to have th’ say ’bout everything—includin’ wot goes on at th’ Range—which he ain’t never goin’ t’ have as long as Don Cazar kin sit th’ saddle an’ ride. Back in ’62 when th’ Rebs came poundin’ in here, they spoke soft an’ nice to Don Cazar. They wanted him to back their play an’ see ’em straight on to Californy. He was from Texas an’ them Texas boys jus’ naturally thought as how he’d saddle up an’ ride right ’long wi’ ’em. Only he said it loud an’ clear—that such ruckusin’ round only meant th’ whole country here’d go to pot. When th’ army pulled out, th’ Apaches got it into their heads as how they finally licked us good an’ proper an’ this here was their country fur th’ takin’. Nearly was, too.
"Then th’ Rebs got up on their high horse an’ said as how iffen Don Cazar warn’t with ’em, then he was agin ’em, an’ they would jus’ move in on him. He tol’ ’em to go ahead an’ try. An’ seem’ as how they was only one company hereabouts—Howard’s Rangers—they didn’t try. That’s when Johnny Shannon had his big bust-up with his pa an’—"
"His father!" Drew could not help that exclamation.
"Wal, Don Cazar ain’t Johnny’s real pa, o’ course. But he shore thinks th’ world an’ all of Johnny, raising him up from a li’l cub. Johnny warn’t more’n four o’ thereabouts when Don Cazar went back to Texas an’ got him. Don Cazar’s been like a pa to Johnny since, an’ a mighty good one, too. But when th’ Rangers was round here in ’62 Johnny—he had a big row an’ run off to join ’em. Jus’ a half-growed kid, not big ’nough to raise a good brush o’ hair on his chin yet. When th’ Yankee boys from Californy came marchin’ in an’ th’ Rebs had to skedaddle—Johnny, he went with ’em. Didn’t see Johnny round here agin till last fall when he came ridin’ in lookin’ mighty beat out an’ down in th’ mouth. But when th’ Union men came, they was thinkin’ th’ same ’bout Don Cazar. Wanted him to jump right in an’ swim ’longside o’ them. But he said as how th’ safety of his people was what was important. He was fightin’ Apaches an’ holdin’ th’ land, an’ that was what meant th’ most to his thinkin’. Then the Yankees did a lot of fancy cussin’ out ’bout him, trying to make out that he was a Reb’ cause Johnny lit off with th’ Southerners.
"Till they began to discover nothin’ much goes on round here lessen Don Cazar has a finger in th’ pot. An’ they had to swaller a lotta them hot an’ hasty words—stuck heavy in quite a few craws, I reckon." Fenner grinned. "Only, th’ Don, he’s got agin him now a big list of little men who’d like to be big chiefs. Every once in a while they gits together an’ makes war talk. Never quite got up guts ’nough to paint their faces an’ hit th’ trail, not yet. But did somebody like Bayliss look like he was beginnin’ to make things move, then he’d have a lotta willin’ hands to help him shove. Up to now Johnny’s been their best bet at gittin’ th’ Range into trouble."
Drew turned his head to look Fenner in the eye. "Now you think we are!" He did not know why he uttered that as a challenge; the words just came out that way.
"Not any more’n any of us wot can be drawed into a fight in town. You keep away from Bayliss. He can’t come huntin’ you without tippin’ his hand so wide he’d never be able to play agin. Hey, here comes somebody poundin’ leather so hard he’s gonna beat it right intuh th’ ground!" Fenner pulled up Tar, flung up his hand to signal the wagons to a halt.
Dust rolled in a cloud with two or three riders at its center. They were pushing the pace all right. Drew jerked his carbine from its saddle boot, saw Anse beat him to that action by a scant second or two. But the newcomers were already drawing rein, bringing their foam-lathered horses to a pawing stop. A buckskin-clad man mounted on a powerful grulla gelding faced Fenner, his whole tense body and snapping eyes backing the demand he made:
"Where’s Johnny?"
"Back at town, Rennie, at Doc’s. He ain’t bad. Got him a head crease wot knocked him silly for a bit. Doc says a day o’ two in bed and then he kin come home."
"How did it happen?" That second question was as sharp as the first.
"Nobody’s got it straight outta him yet. Army patrol picked him up on th’ road close to town—looked like he’d been footin’ it quite a spell. An’ by that time he didn’t know wot he was doin’. Nye got him to Doc’s an’ they put him to bed. He ain’t said much, ’cept Kitchell jumped him down Long Canyon way——"
"Kitchell!" Hunt Rennie repeated the name and nodded. "But ... Long Canyon ..." There was a shade of puzzlement in his voice. "All right, carry on, Crow. I’ll try to get back to the Stronghold before you pull south—if Johnny’s all right. Maybe I can bring him back with me."
The grulla made what was close to a standing leap into a gallop and Rennie flashed along the line of wagons in the opposite direction toward Tubacca. Fenner signaled once more and the train began the slower trip southward.
Drew sat watching the dust arise again as the trio of riders pounded away. He could no longer make out individual riders, just the rising dust. Rennie on his way to Johnny Shannon ... What had Fenner said-"li’l cub ... warn’t more ’n four." Drew Rennie at four—hard to sort out one very early memory from another. There had been that time Uncle Murray had caught him down at the creek, making paper boats. How could a child that young know one kind of paper from another? But Hunt Rennie’s son was judged to have torn up a letter with deliberate malice, not just taken paper found conveniently on the veranda. Was he four then, or even younger? But he could remember the punishment very vividly. And the time he’d run off to see the circus come into town, he and Shelly ... Cousin Jeff, Cousin Merry, they had tried to beg him off from Grandfather’s punishment that time, not that they had succeeded. Drew Rennie at four, at six, at twelve, at sixteen—riding out at night with Castleman’s Company, weaving a path south through enemy-occupied territory to join General Morgan—few of those would-be cavalrymen over twenty-one. Yes, he could remember for Drew Rennie all the way back.
"Hey, you plannin’ to claim this here range?" Anse’s horse trotted up, and Drew was suddenly aware that the trailer of the last wagon had already pulled past him. He tightened rein, and the well-trained horse broke into a canter.
"Not hardly." He tried to meet Anse’s attempt at humor halfway. "Don’t look too promisin’."
"Lissen here"—Anse rode so close their spurs were near to hitting—"you sure you got hold of th’ right end of th’ runnin’ iron now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, ’bout Shannon. You heard what Fenner said—Rennie’s like a pa to him. An’ maybe ..." His voice died away.
"And maybe that’s that? He has my place, and it’s really his now?" Drew asked bleakly. "Could be."
Yes, it could well be that this was a good time to bow out. Maybe he should not have ridden out of Tubacca at all. Maybe he should have cut out of the game yesterday.... Or never come down into the valley weeks ago ... or left Red Springs.... Those "maybes" stretched as far back and as neatly in line as the railroad tracks they had been talking about earlier, one slipping smoothly into another as if cast in one strong string of doubts. Just as he had had that moment of disappointment the first time he had seen Hunt Rennie, so he felt that identical void now, only twice as wide and deep.
What had he expected, anyway? Some kind of instant recognition on his father’s part? That all the welcoming would be on the other side, breaking right through the barrier he had been building for years? His feelings were so illogical he could have laughed at them, only he had no laughter left. He had not tried to open the door, so why did he care that it remained firmly shut?
"Did you ever think about California, Anse? Sounds like a place a man would like to see."
He was conscious that the Texan’s horse quickened pace, only to be reined in again.
"You thinkin’ about cuttin’ out? Yesterday——"
"Yesterday——" Drew tried to think back to how he had felt yesterday about Topham’s warning and how he himself had held the absurd belief that if Don Cazar was going to be in trouble, Drew himself wanted to be there. That was yesterday. But still he pointed his horse south—to the place where Hunt Rennie would return, bringing Johnny Shannon.
The Kentuckian fell back on the old "wait and see." He had learned long since that time took care of a lot of worries. Now he made himself grin at Anse.
"Was worryin’ about wet feet before my boots were in the river again," he confessed.
"Don’t let it git to be no habit," the Texan warned. "You try ridin’ with th’ bumps awhile, not agin them!"
"Agreed." Drew urged his horse on toward the front of the train where they wouldn’t have to breathe the dust.
"... m’ cousin, Anson Kirby ..." Drew made, the introduction to Bartolomé Rivas. The wagons were forted up outside the Stronghold, a second square, smaller but almost as easily defended as the adobe walls. In two or three days the train would pull out again, starting the long trip down into Sonora.
Rivas surveyed Anse none too amicably, his gaze going from man to horse and its gear, then back to the Texan once more.
"You are Tejano," he said flatly. "From the Neusca——"
Anse showed no surpise at being so accurately identified.
"Been bush poppin’," he agreed, smiling.
"Not much cattle here," Rivas returned.
"Run hosses in th’ San Sabe ’fore th’ war." Anse’s tone was offhand, he might have been discussing the weather.
"Don Cazar decides," Bartolomé said. "There is work at the corrals, but he will decide."
"Fair enough," Anse agreed. When Bartolome had moved out of hearing, he added for Drew’s benefit:
"I think it’d be ’no’ if that hombre had th’ sayin’. He plumb don’t like my style."
"But Rennie does need men—guards for the wagon trains, riders——"
Anse shrugged as he off-saddled. "Will he want one as got into a brawl about his third day in town? Anyway, maybe I’ve a day or so to breathe full before he tells me to roll m’ bed again, if he’s goin’ to."
During the next three days Drew made a new discovery. Just as he had fallen into an easy, working rhythm with Anse back in the army—so that on occasion their thoughts and actions matched without the need for speech—now they combined operations in the corrals. Drew’s bare and painfully acquired competence with the rope was paired to the Texan’s range training, while Anse’s cruder and faster methods of "toppin’ a wild one" were smoothed by Drew’s more patient gentling process. Both of them were so absorbed by what they were doing that Tubacca and what might be going on there had no more immediate meaning than the words in the books which had ridden to the Stronghold in Drew’s saddlebags.
In the late afternoon of the third day the Kentuckian was walking a long-legged bay on a lead when León climbed to the top pole of the corral.
"The patrón comes," he announced.
Drew faced about. Two riders escorted at hardly more than a fast walk a buckboard in which were two other men. Drew caught a glimpse of a white bandage under the brim of the passenger’s hat and knew that Johnny Shannon was coming home.
"Anse!" Drew raised a hand, suddenly knowing that his fingers were moving in the old scout signal of trouble ahead.
The Texan came across the corral. Drew’s bay snorted, took a dance step or two to the right as if it had picked up sudden tension from the men.
"What’s up?" Anse pushed back his hat, turned up a corner of his neckerchief, and swabbed the lower half of his sweating face.
"Rennie’s back."
Drew watched León hurry to take the buckboard reins, watched Hunt Rennie give a hand to Johnny. Then he saw Shannon jerk away from that aid, walking stiffly toward Casa Grande while Rennie stood for an instant looking after the younger man before following him.
Croaker tossed his head so high his limber ear bobbed in the murky air. He brayed mournfully. Anse glanced at the mule’s long melancholy face.
"That’s th’ way you think it’s gonna be, Croaker? Well, maybe so ... maybe so."
