Rebel Spurs Page 7

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  A black mule came up beside Drew as he slowly pulled Shiloh down to acanter. Fenner, a wide grin splitting his beard, bellowed:

  "That shore was a race! Need any help, son?"

  Drew shook his head, wanting to bring Shiloh under full control at a ratewhich would quiet the colt before they headed back to the furor about thefinish line. And only now did he have time to relish his own excited prideand pleasure.

  Since he had first seen Shiloh on that scouting trip back to Kentucky in'64, he had known he must someday own the gray colt. He had lain out inthe brush for a long time that morning to watch the head groom of RedSprings put the horse through his paces in the training paddock. Andwatching jealously, Drew had realized that Shiloh was one of those mountsthat a man discovers only once in his life-time, though he may breed andlove their kind all his years.

  Drew would have been content with Shiloh as a mount and a companion, butnow he was sure that the colt was more, so much more. This gray was goingto be one of the Great Ones, a racer and a sire--to leave his mark in horsehistory and stamp his own quality on foals throughout miles and years inthis southwestern land. Drew licked the grit of dust from his lips, filledhis lungs with a deep breath as Shiloh turned under rein pressure.

  It was a long time before the Kentuckian was able to separate Shiloh fromhis ring of new admirers and bring him back to the stable. Drew refusedseveral offers for the colt, some of them so fantastic he could onlybelieve their makers sun-touched or completely carried away by theexcitement of the race.

  But when he found _Don_ Cazar waiting for him at Kells', he guessed thatthis was serious.

  "You do not wish to sell him, I suppose?" Hunt Rennie smiled at Drew'sprompt shake of head. "No, that would be too much to hope for, you are nota fool. But I have something else to suggest. Reese Topham tells me youare looking for work, preferably with horses. Well, I have a contract togentle some remounts for the army, and I need some experienced men to helpbreak them--"

  Drew could not understand the sudden pinch of--could it be alarm? Here itwas: a chance to work on the Range, to know Hunt Rennie, and learn whether_Don_ Cazar was to remain a legend or become a father. But now he was notsure.

  "I'm no breaker, suh. I've gentled, yes--but eastern style."

  "Breaking horses can be brutal, though we don't ride with red spurs on theRange. Suppose we try some of the eastern methods and see how they work onour wild ones. Do you think you can do it?"

  "A man can't tell what he can do until he tries." Drew still hedged.

  There was a trace of frown now between Rennie's brows. "You told Tophamyou wanted work." His tone implied that he found Drew's present hesitancyodd. And--from _Don_ Cazar's point of view--it was. Tubacca was still in aslump; the rest of the valley held about as many jobs for a man as Drewhad fingers on one hand. The Range was the big holding, and to ride theremeant security and an established position in the community. Also, perhapsit was not an offer lightly made to an unknown newcomer.

  "I can't promise you blue-grass training, suh. That has to begin with afoal." He hoped Rennie would credit his wavering to a modest appraisal ofhis own qualifications.

  "Blue-grass training?"

  As his father repeated the expression Drew realized the slip of tongue hehad made. And if he took the job, there might be other slips, perhaps farmore serious ones. But to refuse, after Topham had spoken for him ... hewas caught in a pinch with cause for suspicion closing in on either side.

  "I was in Kentucky for about a year after the war. I went to stay with afriend--"

  "But you _are_ from Texas?"

  Was Rennie watching him too intently? No, he must ride a tighter rein onhis imagination. There was no reason in the wide world why _Don_ Cazarshould expect him to be anyone except Drew Kirby.

  "Yes, suh. Didn't have anythin' to go back to there. Thought I'd try for anew start out here." There was the story of several thousand veterans.Rennie should have heard it a good many times already.

  "Well, come and try some blue-grass training on our colts. And should youlet this stud of yours run with a picked _manada_ of mares, I couldpromise good fees."

  "Suppose I said yes if the fees were some of the foals--of my own choosing,suh?" Drew asked.

  Rennie ran a finger across the brand which scarred the gray's hide. "SpurR--that's a new one to me."

  "My own. Heard tell as how there's a custom of the country that a slickthis old can be branded and claimed by anyone bringing him in. I wasn'tgoing to lose him that way should he do any straying, accidental orintentional."

  _Don_ Cazar laughed. "That's using your head, Kirby. All right. It's adeal as far as I'm concerned. You draw wrangler's pay and take stud feesin foals--say one in three, your choosing. Register that brand of yourswith _Don_ Lorenzo to be on the safe side. Then you're welcome to run SpurR with the Double R on the Range."

  He held out his hand, and Drew grasped it for a quick shake to seal theiragreement. He was committed now--to the Range and to a small partnershipwith its master. But he still wondered if he had made the right choice.

  Two days later he dropped bedroll and saddlebags on the spare bunk at oneend of the long adobe-walled room and studied his surroundings with deepcuriosity. It was a fort, all right, this whole stronghold of Rennie's--notjust the bunkhouse which formed part of a side wall. Bunkhouse, feedstore, and storage room, blacksmith shop, cookhouse, stables, main house,the quarters for the married men and their families--all arranged toenclose a patio into which choice stock could be herded at the time of anattack, with a curbed well in the center.

  The roofs of all the buildings were flat, with loopholed parapets to bemanned at need. A sentry post on the main house was occupied twenty-fourhours a day by relays of Pimas. A loaded rifle leaned at every windowopening, ready to be fired through loopholes in the wooden war shutters.The walls were twenty-five inches thick, and mounted on the roof of thestable, facing the hills from which Apache attacks usually came, was asmall brass cannon--_Don_ Cazar's legacy from troops marching away in '61.

  What he saw of the resources of this private fort led Drew to accept theother stories he had heard of the Range, like the one that _Don_ Cazar'smen practiced firing blindfolded at noise targets to be prepared for nightraids. The place was self-contained and almost self-supporting, withstores of food, good water, its own forge and leather shop, its owncraftsmen and experts. No wonder the Apaches had given up trying to breakthis Anglo outpost and Rennie had accomplished what others foundimpossible. He had held his land secure against the worst and mostunbeatable enemy this country had nourished.

  There were other Range forts, smaller, but as stoutly and ingeniouslydesigned, each built beside a water source on Rennie land--defense pointsfor _Don_ Cazar's riders, their garrisons rotated at monthly intervals.And Drew had to thank that system for having taken Johnny Shannon awayfrom the Stronghold before the Kentuckian arrived. Rennie's foster son wasnow riding inspection between one water-hole fortification and another.But Drew was uncertain just how he would rub along with Shannon in thefuture.

  "_Senor_ Kirby, _Don_ Cazar--he would speak with you in the Casa Grande,"Leon Rivas called through one of the patio side windows.

  "Coming." Drew left the huddle of his possessions on the bunk.

  The Casa Grande of the Stronghold was a high-ceilinged, five-room buildingabout sixty feet long, the kitchen making a right angle to the other roomsand joining the smoke house to form part of another wall for the patio.Mesquite logs, adze-hewn and only partially smoothed, were placed over thedoorways, and the plank doors themselves were slung on hand-wrought ironhinges or on leather straps, from oak turning-posts. Drew knocked on theage-darkened surface of the big door.

  "Kirby? Come in."

  Here in contrast to the brilliant sunlight of the patio was a duskycoolness. There were no glass panes in the windows. Manta, the unbleachedmuslin which served to cover such openings in the frontier ranches, wastacked taut, allowing in air but only subdued light. The wall
s had beensmoothly plastered, and as in Topham's office, lengths of colorful wovenmaterials and a couple of Navajo blankets served as hangings. Rugs ofcougar and wolf skin were scattered on the beaten earth of the floor.There was a tall carved cupboard with a grilled door, a bookcase, and twomassive chests shoved back against the walls. And over the stone mantel ofthe fireplace hung a picture of a morose-looking, bearded man wearing asteel breastplate, the canvas dim and dark with age and smoke.

  _Don_ Cazar was seated at a table as massive as the chests, a pile ofpapers before him flanked by two four-branch candelabra of native silver.Bartolome Rivas' more substantial bulk weighed down the rawhide seat ofanother chair more to one side.

  "Sit down--" Rennie nodded to the seat in front of the table. "Smoke?" Hepushed forward a silver box holding the long cigarillos of the bordercountry. Drew shook his head.

  "Whisky? Wine?" He gestured to a tray with waiting glasses.

  "Sherry." Drew automatically answered without thought.

  "What do you think of the stock you saw down in the corral?" _Don_ Cazarpoured a honey-colored liquid from the decanter into a small glass.

  As the Kentuckian raised it to sip, the scent of the wine quirked time forhim, making this for a fleeting moment the dining room at Red Springsduring a customary after-dinner gathering of the men of the household. Thetalk there, too, had been of horses--always horses. Then Drew came back ina twitch of eyelid to the here and now, to Hunt Rennie watching him with ameasuring he did not relish, to Bartolome's round face with itsclose-to-hostile expression. Deliberately Drew sipped again beforeanswering the question.

  "I'd say, suh, if they're but a sample of Range stock, the breed isexcellent. However----"

  "However what, _senor_?" Bartolome's eyes challenged Drew. "In thisterritory, even in Sonora, there are none to compare with the horses ofthis hacienda."

  "That is not what I was about to say, _Senor_ Rivas. But if _Don_ Cazarwishes to try the eastern methods of training, these horses are too old.You begin with a yearling colt, not three-year-olds."

  "To break a foal! What madness!" Now Bartolome's face expressed shock.

  "Not breaking," Drew corrected, "training. It is another methodaltogether. One puts a weanling on a rope halter, accustoms him to thefeel of the hackamore, of being with men. Then he grows older knowing nofear or strangeness."

  The Mexican looked from Drew to _Don_ Cazar, his shock fading topuzzlement. Rennie nodded.

  "_Si, amigo_, so it is done--in Kentucky and Virginia. But this time wemust deal with the older ones. Can you modify those methods, gentlewithout breaking? A colt with the fire still in him, but saddle-broke, isworth much more--"

  "I can try. But you have already said, suh, that you don't allow roughbreakin' here." Drew's half suspicion crystallized into belief. _Don_Cazar had not really wanted another wrangler at all; he had wantedShiloh--and his foals. Well, perhaps he would find he did have a wranglerwho could deliver the goods into the bargain.

  "No, but it is always well to learn new ways. I have been in Kentucky,Kirby. Perhaps some of their methods would not work on the Range. On theother hand, others might. As you have said--we can but try." He picked upthe top sheet of paper and began to read:

  "_Bayos-blancos_--light duns--two. _Bayos-azafranados_--saffrons--one._Bayos-narajados_--orange duns--none----"

  "There was one," Bartolome interrupted. "The mare, she was lost at Canondel Palomas."

  Rennie frowned, "_Si_, the mare. _Bayos-tigres_--striped ones --three._Bayos-cebrunos_--smoked duns--two. _Grullas_--blues--four. Roans--six.Blacks--three. Bays--four. Twenty-five three-year-olds. You won't beexpected to take on the whole _remuda_, Kirby. Select any six of your ownchoosing and use your methods of gentling on them. We'll make a test thisway."

  Bartolome uttered a sound closer to a snort than anything else. And Drewguessed how he stood with the Mexican foreman. Rennie might have faith, orpretend to have faith, in some new method of training, but Rivas was aconservative who preferred the tried and true and undoubtedly consideredthe Kentuckian an interloper.

  "Now, the matter of Shiloh..."

  Drew finished the sherry with appreciation. He was beginning to see theamusing side of this conference. Drew's work on the Range settled, Renniewas about to get to what he really wanted. But _Don_ Cazar's first wordswere a little startling.

  "We'll keep him close-in the water corral. To turn a stud of easternbreeding loose is dangerous----"

  "You mean he might be stolen, suh?" Drew clicked his empty glass down onthe table.

  "No, he might be killed!" And Rennie's tone indicated he meant just that.

  "How...why?"

  "There are wild-horse bands out there, though we're trying to capture orrun them off the Range. And a wild stud will always try to add mares tohis band. Because he has fought many times to keep or take mares, he is aformidable and vicious opponent, one that an imported, tamed stud canrarely best. Right now, coming into Big Rock well for water is a pintothat has killed three other stallions--including a black I imported back in'60--and two of them were larger, heavier animals than he.

  "The Trinfans are moving down into that section this week. I hope they canbreak up that band, run down the stud anyway. He has courage and cunning,but his blood is not a line we want for foals on this range. So Shilohstays here at the Stronghold; don't risk him loose."

  "Yes, suh. What about these wild ones--they worth huntin'?"

  "They're mixed; some are scrubs, inbred, poor stuff. But a few fine onesturn up. Mostly when they do they're strays or bred from strays--escapedfrom horse thieves or Indians. If the mustangers here pick up any brandedones, they're returned to the owners, if possible, or sold at a yearlyauction. By the old Mexican law the hunting season for horses runs fromOctober to March. Foals are old enough then to be branded. Speaking offoals, you left your mare and the filly in town?"

  "Kells'll give them stable room till next month. I can bring them outthen."

  "We'll have a delivery of remounts to make to the camp about then. You canhelp haze those in and pick up your own stock on return."

  Leon appeared in the doorway. "_Don_ Cazar, the _mesteneoes_--they arrive."

  "Good. These people are the real wild-horse experts, Kirby. Not much theTrinfans don't know about horses." _Don_ Cazar was already on his way tothe door and Drew fell in behind Bartolome.

  The Trinfan outfit was small, considering the job they intended, Drewthought. A cart pulled by two mules, lightly made and packed high, was thenucleus of their small caravan. Burros--two of them--were roped behind and,to Drew's surprise, a cow, bawling fretfully and intended, he laterlearned, to play foster mother to any unweaned foals which might be pickedup. The cart was driven by a Mexican in leather breeches and jacket over ared shirt. Behind him rode the boy and girl Drew had seen in the Tubaccaalley, mounted on rangy, nervous horses that had speed in every line oftheir under-fleshed bodies. Each rider trailed four spare mounts ropednose to tail.

  "_Buenos dias, Don_ Cazar." For so small a man the Mexican on the cartseat produced a trumpet-sized voice. He touched the roll-edged brim of hissombrero, and Drew noted that his arm was crooked as if in the past it hadbeen broken and poorly set.

  "_Buenos dias, Senor_ Trinfan. This house is yours." Rennie went to theside of the cart. "The west corral is ready for your use as always. Drawon the stores for any need you may have--"

  "_Gracias, Don_ Cazar." It was the thanks of equal to equal. "You havesome late news of the wild ones?"

  "Only that the pinto still runs near the well."

  "That spotted one--_si_, he is an Apache for cunning, for deviltry ofspirit. It may be that this time he will not be the lucky one. There is inhim a demon. Did I not see him, with my own eyes, kill a foal, tear fleshfrom the flanks of its dam when she tried to drop out of the run? _Si_--areal _diablo_, that one!"

  "Get rid of him one way or another, Trinfan. He is a danger to the Range.He killed another stud this season. I am as sure of that as if I had seenhim in action
."

  "Ah, the blue one you thought might be a runner to match Oro. _Si_, thatwas a great pity, _Don_ Cazar. Well, we shall try, we shall try this timeto put that _diablo_ under!"

  An hour later Drew was facing a _diablo_ of his own, with far lessconfidence than Hilario Trinfan had voiced. Just how stupid could one be?Around him now were men trained from early childhood to this life, and hecould show no skill at their employment. All the way out from Texas he hadpracticed doggedly with the lariat, and his best fell far short of what arange-bred child could do.

  Yet he had an audience waiting down at the corral. Drew's mouth was astraight line. He would soon confirm their belief that _Don_ Cazar had intruth hired Shiloh instead of his owner. But there was no use trying toduck the ordeal, and the Kentuckian had never been one to put off theinevitable with a pallid hope that something would turn up to save him.

  Only this time, apparently, fortune was going to favor him.

  "Which one you wish, _senor?_" Teodoro Trinfan, rope in hand, stood thereready to cast for one of the milling colts. Why the boy was making thatoffer of assistance Drew had no inkling. But to accept would give him aslight chance to prove he could do part of the work.

  He had already made his selection in the corral, though he had despairedof ever getting that animal at rope's end.

  "The black--"