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  Only a well-armed and convoyed set of wagons with a highly experienced andcompetent master could dare travel the Apache-infested trails these days.The first of the freighters, pulled by a sixteen-mule team, fairly burstinto the plaza, outriders fanning about it. One of the mounted men wasdressed in fringed buckskin, his shoulder-length hair and bushy blackbeard the badge of a frontier already passing swiftly into history. Herode a big black mule and carried a long-barreled rifle, not in the saddleboot, but resting across the horn as if even here in Tubacca there mightbe reason for instant action.

  The mule trotted on to the middle of the plaza. Then the weapon pointedskyward as its owner fired into the air, voicing a whoop as wild as theRebel Yell from the throat of a charging Texas trooper.

  He was answered by cries and shouts from the gathering crowd as five morewagons, each with a trailer hooked to its main bulk, pulled in around theedge of the open area, until the center of the town was full and the dinof braying mules was deafening.

  Drew retreated to the roofed entrance of the Four Jacks. The extra step ofheight there enabled him to get a good look at two more horsemen pushingpast the end wagon. Both wore the dress of Mexican gentlemen, their shortjackets glinting with silver braid and embroidery; their bridles, horsegear, and saddles were rich in scrolls and decorations of the same metal.Navajo blankets lay under the saddles, and serapes were folded over theshoulder of one rider, tied behind the cantle of the other.

  They pulled up before the cantina, and one man took the reins of bothmounts. If the riders' clothing and horse furnishings were colorful, thehorses themselves were equally striking. One was a chestnut, a warm,well-groomed red. But the other ... Drew stared. In all his years aboutthe stables and breeding farms of Kentucky, and throughout his travelssince, he had never seen a horse like this. Its coat was pure gold, aperfect match to one of the eagles in his money belt. But the silky locksof mane and tail were night black. Its breeding was plainly Arab, and itwalked with a delicate pride as gracefully as a man might foot a dancemeasure.

  Drew had a difficult time breaking his gaze from the horse to the mandismounting. The ranchero was tall, perhaps an inch or so taller thanDrew, and his body had the leanness of the men who worked the rangecountry, possessing, too, a lithe youthfulness of carriage. Until onelooked directly into his sun-browned face he could pass as a man still inhis late twenties.

  But he was older, perhaps a decade older than that, Drew thought. Too highand prominent cheekbones with slight hollows below them, and a mouth tightset, made more for strength of will and discipline of feeling thanconventional good looks. Yet his was a face not easily forgotten, onceseen. Black hair was pepper-salted for a finger-wide space above his ears,which were fronted by long sideburns, and black brows were straight abovedark eyes. In spite of his below-the-border dress and his coloring, he wasunmistakably Anglo, just as the man looping both horses' reins to the rackwas Mexican.

  "So, you're still wearing your hair in good order? No trouble this trip?"Topham had come to the door of the cantina, his hand outstretched."Welcome back, Hunt!"

  "Paugh!" The Mexican spat. "Where is there one Indio who is able to face_Don_ Cazar on his own ground? The folly of that they learned long ago."

  _Don_ Cazar smiled. That mask of aloofness was wiped away as if he wereten years younger and twenty years less responsible than he had been onlyseconds earlier. "And if they did not beware our rifles, Bartolome herewould talk them to death! Is that not so, _amigo_?" His speech was oddlyformal, as if he were using a language other than his own, but there was awarmth to the tone which matched that sudden and surprising smile.

  Topham's arm went about the shoulders under the black-and-silver jacket,drawing _Don_ Cazar into the light, music, and excitement of the cantina.While Drew watched, the stouter back of Bartolome cut off his first goodlook at his father.

  So ... _that_ was _Don_ Cazar--Hunt Rennie! Drew did not know what he hadexpected of their first meeting. Now he could not understand why he feltso chilled and lost. He had planned it this way--no demands, no claims on astranger, freedom to make the decision of when or how he would see hisfather; that was the only path he could take. But now he turned slowlyaway from that open door, the light, the laughter and singing, and walkedback toward the stable, loneliness cutting into him.

  Tubacca had slumbered apathetically before; now the town was wide awake.In a couple of days the wagon train would head on north to Tucson, but nowthe activity in the plaza was a mixture of market day and fiesta. Smalltraders from Sonora took advantage of the protection afforded by _Don_Cazar's outriders and had trailed along with their own products, now beingspread out and hawked.

  Parrots shrieked from homemade cages; brightly woven fabrics were drapedto catch the eye. As he wandered about viewing cactus syrup, sweet, brownpanocha-candy, fruit, dried meat, blankets, saddles, Drew was again awareof the almost strident color of this country. He fingered appreciatively ahorn goblet carved with intricate figures of gods his Anglo eyes did notrecognize. The hum of voices, the bray of mules, the baa-ing and naa-ingof sheep and goats, kept up a roar to equal surf on a seacoast. Afternoonwas fast fading into evening, but Tubacca, aroused from the post-noonsiesta, was in tumult.

  A fighting cock tethered to a cart wheel stretched its neck to the utmostin an attempt to peck at Drew's spurs. He laughed, attracted, wrenched outof his own private world. The smell of spicy foods, of fruit, of animalsand people ... the clamor ... the sights....

  Drew rounded one end of a wagon and stepped abruptly into yet anotherworld and time. All the stories which had been dinned warningly into hisears since he had left the Mississippi now brought his hand to one of theColts at his belt. Most of the half-dozen men squatting on their heelsabout a fire were three-quarters bare, showing dusty, brown bodies. Twohad dirty calico shirts loose above hide breech-clouts. Dark-brown eyes,as unreadable as Johnny Shannon's, surveyed Drew, but none of the Indiansmoved or spoke.

  Common sense took over, and Drew's hand dropped from the gun butt.Hostiles would not be camping peacefully here in the heart of town. Hecould not be facing wild Apaches or Navajos. But they were the firstIndians he had seen this close since he had ridden out of Texas.

  "Somethin' buggin' you, boy?"

  Drew's war-trained muscles took over. He was in a half crouch, the Coltflipped over and out, pointing into the shadows where the newcomeremerged. Then the Kentuckian flushed and slammed his weapon back into theholster. This was the buckskinned man who had whooped the train into townthat morning.

  "Mite quick to show your iron, ain't you?" There was a chill in thequestion, and Drew saw that the long rifle was still held at alert by itsowner.

  "Cat-footin' up on a man ought to make you expect somethin' of areception," Drew countered.

  "Yep, guess some men has sure got 'em a bellyful of lead doin' that." ToDrew's surprise the other was now grinning. "You huntin' someone?"

  "No, just lookin' around." Drew longed to ask some things himself, buthesitated. Frontier etiquette was different from Kentucky custom; it wassafer to be quiet when not sure.

  "Wal, thar's aplenty to see tonight, right enough. Me--I'm Crow Fenner; Iride scout fur th' train. An' these here--they're Rennie's Pimas, what o''em is runnin' th' trail this trip."

  So these were the famous Pima Scouts! No wonder they took their ease inthe Tubacca plaza. Every man, woman, and child in those adobe buildingshad reason to be thankful for their skill and cunning--the web ofprotection Rennie's Pima Scouts had woven in this river valley.

  "I'm Kirby, Drew Kirby." He hastened to match one introduction withanother. "This is my first time in the valley--"

  "From th' east, eh?"

  "Texas."

  "Texas...." Something in the way Fenner repeated that made it sound notlike a confirmation but a question. Or was Drew overly suspicious? Afterall, as Callie had agreed last night, the late Republic of Texas was avery large strip of country, housing a multitude of native sons, from theplanting families of th
e Brazos to the ranchers in crude cabins of theBrasado. There were Texans and Texans, differing greatly in speech,manners, and background. And one did not ask intimate questions of a manriding west of the Pecos. Too often he might have come hunting a districtwhere there was a longer distance between sheriffs. What a man volunteeredabout his past was accepted as the truth.

  "Rode a far piece then," Fenner commented. "Me, I've been trailin' roundthis here country since th' moon was two-bit size. An' I ain't set mymoccasins on all o' it yet. Thar's parts maybe even an Injun ain't seedneither. You jus' outta th' army, son?"

  Drew nodded. Apparently he could not escape that part of his past, andthere was no reason to deny it.

  "Iffen you be huntin' a job--_Don_ Cazar, he's always ready to hire onwagon guards. Any young feller what knows how to handle a gun, he'swelcome--"

  "Can't leave Tubacca, at least for now. Have me a mare over in the liverythat just foaled. I'm not movin' until she's ready to travel--"

  "Must be right good stock," Fenner observed. "Me, I has me a ridin' muleas kin smell Apaches two miles off. Two, three times that thar mule savedm' skin fur me. Got Old Tar when he turned up in a wild-hoss corral th'mustangers set over in th' Red River country--"

  "I saw him when you rode into town. Good-lookin' animal."

  Crow Fenner nodded vigorously. "Shore is, shore is. _Don_ Cazar, he'spartial to good stock--favors Tar, too. Th' _Don_ has him a high-steppin'hoss every hoss thief in this here territory'd like to run off. Brightyaller--"

  "Saw that one, too. Unusual colorin' all right."

  "He put a white stud--white as milk--to run with some light buckskin maresback 'fore th' war. First colt out of that thar breedin' was that Orohoss. Never got 'nother like him; he's special. Shows his heels good, too.They's gonna race him out on th' flats tomorrow if anyone is fool 'noughto say as he has a hoss as can beat Oro. Thar's always some greenhorn asthinks he has--"

  "Oh?" Drew wondered aloud. The black-and-gold horse was beautiful andplainly of good breeding. That he was also a runner was not out of thequestion. But that Oro could best Gray Eagle-Ariel stock on the track,Drew doubted. There were unbroken records set on eastern tracks by horsesin Shiloh's direct blood line. And the local talent that had been matchedagainst Oro in the past had probably not been much competition. TheKentuckian began to speculate about a match between the gray stallion andthe horse foaled on the Arizona range.

  "Yep, we'll see some race, does anyone turn up with a hoss t' match Oro."

  One of the shirted Indians rose to his feet. With rifle sloped overforearm, he padded into the dark. Fenner's relaxed posture tensed intoalert readiness. His head turned, his attitude now one of listeningconcentration. Drew strained to see or hear what lay beyond. But the noisefrom the plaza and torchlight made a barrier for eye and ear.

  Fenner's rifle barrel dropped an inch or so; he stood easy again. Drewheard a jingle of metal, the creak of saddle leather, the pound of shodhoofs.

  "Soldiers!" Fenner sniffed. "Wonder what they's doin', hittin' town now.Wal, that ain't no hair off m' skull. Me, I'm gonna git Tar his treat.Promised him some time back he could have a bait o' oats--oats an' salt,an' jus' a smidgen o' corn cake. That thar mule likes t' favor hisstomach. Kells, he ought t' have them vittles put together right 'boutnow. This mare o' yourn what's so special, young feller.... Me, I'd liket' see a hoss what's got to be took care of like she was a bang-up lady!"

  He put two fingers to his lips and whistled. A mule head, attached to arangy mule body, weaved forward to follow dog-at-heel fashion behind thescout.

  A squad of blue coats was riding in--an officer and six men. They threadedtheir way to the cantina where the officer dismounted and went inside. Thetroopers continued to sit their saddles and regard the scene about themwistfully.

  "Looks like a duty patrol," Fenner remarked. "Maybe Cap'n Bayliss. He'sgittin' some biggety idear as how it's up t' him t' police this here town.Does he start t' crow too loud, _Don_ Cazar or Reese Topham'll cut hisspurs. Maybe he sets up th' war shield an' does th' shoutin' back thar infront o' all them soldier boys. In this town he ain't no gold-lacegeneral!"

  "Troops and the town not friendly?" Drew asked.

  "Th' soldiers--they ain't no trouble. Some o' 'em have their heads screwedon straight an' know what they's doin' or tryin' t' do. But a lot o' themofficers now--they come out here wi' biggety idears 'bout how t' handleInjuns, thinkin' they knows all thar's t' be knowed 'bout fightin'--an'them never facin' up to a Comanche in war paint, let alone huntin''Paches. 'Paches, they know this here country like it was part o' theirown bodies--can say 'Howdy-an'-how's-all-th'-folks, bub?' t' every lizardan' snake in th' rocks. Ain't no army gonna pull 'em out an' make 'emfight white-man style.

  "_Don_ Cazar--he goes huntin' 'em when they've come botherin' him an' doesit right. But he knows you think Injun, you live Injun, you eat Injun, yousmell Injun when you do. They don't leave no more trail than an antsteppin' high, 'less they want you should foller them into a nice ambushas they has all figgered out. Put Greyfeather an' his Pimas on 'em an'then leg it till your belly's near meetin' your backbone an' you is allone big tired ache. Iffen you kin drink sand an' keep on footin' it overred-hot rocks when you is nigh t' a bag o' bones, then maybe--jus'maybe--you kin jump an Apache. Comanches, now, an' Cheyenne an' Kiowa an'Sioux ride out to storm at you--guns an' arrows all shootin'--wantin' tocount coup on a man by hittin' him personal. But th' 'Pache ain't wastin'hisself that way. Nope--git behind a rock an' ambush ... put th' wholehell-fired country t' work fur them. That's how th' 'Pache does hisfightin'. An' th' spit-an'-polish officers what come from eastward--they'sgot t' larn that. Only sometimes they ain't good at larnin', an' then theygits larned--good an' proper. Hey, Kells!"

  They were at the stable and Fenner lifted a hand, palm out, in greeting tothe liveryman. "Here's Ole Tar wantin' his special grub--"

  Drew went on to Shiloh's stall. Reese Topham, the Spaniard _Don_ Lorenzowho had been in the cantina last night, the stout Mexican Bartolome, and_Don_ Cazar himself were all there before him.

  "Here he is now." Reese Topham waved a hand at Drew. "This is MisterKirby, from Texas."

  "You have a fine horse there, Kirby--the mare, too. Eastern stock, I wouldjudge, perhaps Kentucky breeding?" Rennie asked.

  Drew was taut inside. To say the wrong thing, to admit the line of thatbreeding, might be a bad slip. Yet he could only evade, not lie directly.

  "Yes, Kentucky." He answered the first words his father had ever addressedto him.

  "And the line?"

  To be too evasive would invite suspicion. However, the Gray Eagle get wasin more than one Kentucky stable.

  "Eclipse...." Drew set back the pedigree several equine generations.Shiloh tossed his head, looked over his shoulder at Drew, who entered thestall and began quieting the stallion with hands drawn gently over theback and up the arch of the neck.

  "The mare also?" _Don_ Cazar continued.

  "Yes." The Kentuckian's answer sounded curt in his own ears, but he couldnot help it.

  "This Eclipse, _amigo_," _Don_ Lorenzo turned to Rennie forenlightenment--"he was a notable horse?"

  "_Si_, of the Messenger line. But a gray of that breeding--" _Don_ Cazar'sforefinger ran nail point along his lower lip. "Ariel blood, perhaps?"

  Drew busied himself adjusting Shiloh's hackamore. This was getting close.Hunt Rennie had lived in Kentucky over a year once. He had visited RedSprings many times before he had dared to court Alexander Mattock'sdaughter and been forbidden the place. His visits to the stable must havefamiliarized him with the Gray Eagle-Ariel strain bred there. On the otherhand, horses of the same combination were the pride of several otherfamilies living around Lexington.

  "A racing line of high blood," _Don_ Lorenzo said thoughtfully. "_Si_,this one has the pride, the appearance. You have raced him, _senor_?" heasked Drew with formal courtesy.

  "Not on any real track, _senor_. During the war there were no races."

  "He wasn't a cavalry
mount?" _Don_ Cazar looked surprised.

  "No, suh. Too young for that. He was foaled on April sixth in sixty-two.That's why they called him Shiloh."

  There was a moment of silence, broken by a hail from the door.

  "You there--Rennie!"

  Drew saw the involuntary spasm of _Don_ Cazar's lips, the shadow of anexpression which might mean he anticipated a distasteful scene to come.But the quirk disappeared as he turned to face the man in the blueuniform.

  "Captain Bayliss." It was acknowledgment rather than a greeting, deliveredin a cool tone.

  "I want to see you, Rennie!" The officer stamped forward a step or so, tostand in the full light of the first lantern. He was of medium height, andhis blue blouse had been cut by a good tailor, though now it was worn. Hewas a good-looking man, though jowly about the mouth, above which aclosely cropped mustache bristled. His color was high under a pink skinwhich in this hot country must burn painfully. And there was the permanentstamp of uncertain temper in the lines about his prominent eyes.