Andre Norton - Rebel Spurs

Why had he said that? He had never been one to pick a fight or take up a challenge. What was there about Shannon that prodded Drew this way? He'd met the gamecock breed before and had never known the need to bristle at their crowing. Now he was disturbed that Shannon could prick him so.

Odd, the other had been successfully turned from his purpose here. Yet now as he swung around and walked away down the alley Drew was left with a nagging doubt, a feeling that in some way or other Shannon had come off even in this encounter.... But how and why?

Teodoro spat. His sister tugged at Kells' sleeve. "It is not true what he said. Why does he wish to make trouble?"

"Lissen, gal, an' you, too, Teodoro—jus' keep clear of Johnny Shannon when he's on th' prod that way. I've knowed that kid since he didn't have muscle enough to pull a gun 'less he took both hands to th' job. But he's not needin' any two hands to unholster now. An' he's drinkin' a lot—mean, ugly drunk, he is. Somethin' must have riled him good tonight—"

"In the cantina there was a soldier from the camp," Faquita volunteered. "They call names. He and Señor Juanito fight. Don Reese, he put them both out in the street. Señor Juanito he falls, drops purse. Teodoro picks it up, and we follow. When we try to give it back Señor Juanito yell, 'spy,' hit with whip. That is the truth, por Dios , the truth!"

"Yeah, sounds jus' like Johnny these days. Him with a snootful an' somebody yellin' Reb and Yank. Some men can't forgit an' don't seem to want to. Johnny sure takes it hard bein' on th' losin' side—turned him dirt mean. Now, you kids, you stayin' in town?"

" Sí. " Faquita nodded vigorously. "With Tía María."

"Then you git there an' stay clear of Johnny Shannon, sabe ? No more trouble."

" Sí, Señor Kells. You, señor ," she spoke to Drew, "to you we owe a big debt. Come, Teodoro!" She caught at her brother and pulled him away.

"What makes a kid go sour?" Kells asked of the shadows beyond rather than of Drew. "Johnny warn't no real trouble 'fore he skinned off to ride with Howard. Sure he was always a wild one, but no more'n a lotta kids. An' he'd answer th' lead rein. 'Course we don't know what happened to him in Texas after th' big retreat th' Rebs made outta here. Could be he larned a lot what was no good. Now he sops up whisky when he hits town an' picks fights, like he didn't git his belly full of that in th' war. You can't never tell how a kid's gonna turn out."

"Hey! Mister Kirby, you better git in here!" Callie hailed from the stable. "Th' mare ... she's...."

Drew jammed the Colt under his belt and ran.

The scent of hay, of grain, of horse.... Drew's head rolled on the pillow improvised from hay and blanket as sun lay hot across his face. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and then came fully awake to remember the night before.

It took only a minute to get down the ladder into Shadow's stall where a broom tail jiggled up and down above absurdly long baby legs and small rounded haunches. Shadow's small daughter breakfasted. Callie squatted on his heels near-by watching the process benignly.

"Ain't she 'bout th' best-favored filly you ever saw?" he asked. "How come all your hosses is grays? Shiloh her pa?"

Drew shook his head. "No, her sire's Storm Cloud. But all that line are grays."

"This Storm Cloud, he's a runnin' hoss?"

"About the runnin'est horse in his part of the country, Callie. This filly ought to pick up her heels some, if she takes after her dam and sire."

"What you namin' her?"

Up to that moment Drew had not really thought about it. The crisp air blowing into the stable, carrying something beside the scents of the town, gave him a suggestion.

"How about Sage, Callie?"

The boy thought seriously and then nodded. "Yeah—Sage. That's gray an' it's purty, smells good, too."

Drew pulled up his shirt, dug into the pocket of the money belt for the horse papers. "Got a pencil—or better—pen and ink around here anywhere?"

"Mister Kells, he keeps ledgers over in th' tack room. Got some ink an' a pen there. How come you need that? You ain't makin' out no bill of sale on her already, are you?" Callie was shocked.

"Hardly. Just want to put her down right and proper on the tally sheet."

The boy followed to watch Drew make the record on the margin of Shadow's papers. As the Kentuckian explained, Callie was deeply interested.

"You mean as how you can tell way back jus' what hosses bred your hosses? That's sure somethin'! Round here we knows a good hoss, but we ain't always sure of his pa, not if he's wild stuff."

"Lots of wild horses hereabouts then?"

"Sure. Some're jus' mustangs; other's good stuff gone wild—run off by th' 'Paches an' broke loose, or got away from a 'wet hoss' band—"

"'Wet horse' band?"

Callie glanced at him a little sharply. "How come you ain't knowin' 'bout 'wet hosses'? Heard tell as how they have 'em that same trouble down Texas way—"

"But I don't come from the border country."

"Well, Texas sure is a great big piece o' country, so maybe you don't know 'bout them river tricks. Wet hosses—they's hosses what is run off up here, driven down to th' border where they's swapped for hosses what some Mex bandidos have thrown a sticky loop over. Then th' Mexes take them Anglo hosses south an' sell 'em, where their brands ain't gonna git nobody into noose trouble. An' th' stolen Mex hosses, they's drove up here an' maybe sold to some of th' same fellas what lost th' others. Hosses git themselves lost 'long them back-country trails, specially if they's pushed hard. So them strays join up with th' wild ones. Iffen a mustanger can rope him one an' bring it in ... well, if it's a good one, maybe so he'll git a reward from th' man what's lost him. Heard tell that Don Cazar, he's set some good rewards on a coupla studs as was run off th' Range this summer."

" Don Cazar has good horses?"

"'Bout th' best in these here parts. He runs 'em on th' Range th' old style—stud an' twenty—twenty-five mares together in a manada , all one color to a band. They sure is a grand sight: band o' roans, then one o' duns, an' some blacks. He's got one manada all of grullas. Sells some to th' army, drives more clear to Californy. An' th' old Dons down in Sonora come up once in a while to pick them out some fancy saddle stock. He sure would enjoy seem' these grays o' yours. Iffen you ever want to sell, Don Cazar'd give you top price."

"But I'm not sellin'." Drew folded the piece of paper he had been waving to dry the ink and put it back in the belt pocket. "What's that?"

He could almost believe he heard an army bugle, but the call it sounded was unlike any cavalry signal he had known. Callie was already on his way to the door.

"Wagon train's comin'!" he cried as he ran out.

Drew lingered by Shadow's box. The filly was resting in the straw, her match-stick legs folded under her, and the mare was munching the extra feed of oats the Kentuckian had tipped in for her. He could hear the sound of other running feet outside. It would seem that all Tubacca was turning out to welcome the wagon train of traders from the south. Drew's curiosity got the better of him. He went on out to the plaza.

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