Andre Norton - Rebel Spurs

"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.