The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

cantina oil lamps made yellow pools of light. The man in the painted vest was seated at a table laying out cards in a complicated pattern of a solitaire game. And at one side a round-faced Mexican in ornate, south-of-the-border clothing held a guitar across one plump knee, now and then plucking absent-mindedly at a single string as he stared raptly into space. A third man stood behind the bar polishing thick glasses.
    “Greetings!” As Drew stood blinking just within the doorway the card player rose. He was a tall, wide-shouldered man, a little too thin for his height. Deep lines in his clean-shaven face bracketed his wide mouth. His curly hair was a silvery blond,and he had dark, deeply set eyes. “I’m Reese Topham, owner of this oasis,” he introduced himself.
    “Drew Kirby.” He must remember that always—he was Drew Kirby, a Texan schooled with kinfolk in Kentucky, who served in the war under Forrest and was now drifting west, as were countless other rootless Confederate veterans. Actually the story was close enough to the truth. And he had had months on the trail from San Antonio to Santa Fe, then on to Tucson, to study up on any small invented details. He was Drew Kirby, Texan, not Drew Rennie of Red Springs, Kentucky.
    “For a man just off the trail, Kirby, the Four Jacks does have a few of the delights of civilization. A bath.…” One of Topham’s dark eyebrows, so in contrast to his silvery hair, slid up inquiringly, and he grinned at Drew’s involuntary but emphatic nod. “One of nature’s gifts to our fair city is the hot spring. Hamilcar!” His hand met table top in a sharp slap. The Mexican jerked fully awake and looked around. From the back of the cantina emerged a middle-aged Negro.
    “Yes, Mistuh Reese, suh?”
    “Customer for you, Hamilcar. I would judge he wants the full treatment. This, Mister Kirby, is the best barber, valet, and general aid to comfort in town, the sultan of our bath. Hamilcar, Mister Kirby would like to remove the layers of dust he has managed to pick up. Good luck to you both!”
    Drew found himself laughing as he followed Hamilcar to the rear of the building.
    Topham had reason to be proud of his bath, Drew admitted some time later. A natural hot spring might be the base of the luxury, but man’s labor had piped the water into stone-slab tubsand provided soap and towels. To sit and soak was a delight he had forgotten. He shampooed his unkempt head vigorously and allowed himself to forget all worries, wallowing in the sheer joy of being really clean again.
    Hamilcar had produced a clean shirt and drawers from the saddlebags, even managing to work up a shadow of shine on the scuffed cavalry boots, and had beat the worst of the trail dust from the rest of the traveler’s clothing. Drew had re-dressed except for his gun belt when he heard a voice call from the next cubicle.
    “Ham—Ham! You git yourself in here, ’fore I skin that black hide—”
    “Johnny!” Topham’s voice cut through the other’s thickened slur. “You soak that rot-gut out of you, and mind your tongue while you do it!”
    “Sure, sure, Reese—” The voice was pitched lower this time, but to Drew the tone was more mocking than conciliatory. Drunk or sober, that stranger did not hold very kindly thoughts of Topham. But that was none of the Kentuckian’s business.
    “Yore hat, suh.” Hamilcar brought in the well-brushed headgear, much more respectable looking than it had been an hour ago. The cord on it glistened. Army issue—brave gold bullion—made for a general’s wearing. Drew straightened it, remembering.…
    Sergeant Rennie of the Scouts, in from an independent foray into enemy-held Tennessee, reporting to the Old Man himself—General Bedford Forrest. And Forrest saying:
    “We don’t give medals, Sergeant. But I think a good soldier might just be granted a birthday present without any one gittin’ too excited about how military that is.” Then he had jerked the cordoff his own hat and given it to Drew. It was something big to remember when you were only nineteen and had been soldiering three years, three years with a dogged army that refused to be beaten. That hat cord, the spurs on his boots, they were all he had brought home from war—save a tough body and a mind he hoped was as hard.
    “Mighty pretty hat trimmin’, that, suh,” Hamilcar admired.
    “Mighty big man wore it once.” Drew was still half in the past. “What do I owe you more’n the thanks of a