The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

they found out as how they was holdin’ Jacks against some other fella’s Kings. You want anything—you jus’ holler, Mister Kirby!”
    “Mister?” Drew thought he did not have the advantage of Callie by more than four or five years.
    “Oh—Captain Kirby, maybe? Or Lieutenant? Johnny Shannon—now he was a lieutenant with Howard’s Rangers.” Callie gave Drew a shrewd measuring look.
    “Sergeant.” Drew corrected automatically and then asked: “How did you know I’d been in the army?”
    “Well, you wear them two shootin’ irons army style, belted high an’ butt to front. Must use a flip-hand draw as do all th’ hoss soldiers. Listen, Mister Kirby, iffen you rode with th’ Rebs, you better keep your lip buttoned up when th’ Blue Bellies hit town. There’s been a pile of fightin’ an’ folks is gittin’ mad ’bout it—”
    “Blue Bellies?” Drew was wrenched back months, a year, by that old army slang. “Union troops stationed here?” He had unconsciously tensed, his body responding nerve and muscle to past training and alarms. But there were no Yanks or Rebs any more, no riders or marchers in blue and gray—just United States troops.
    “There’s a garrison out to the Mesa camp. An’ Cap’n Bayliss, he don’t take kindly to Rebs. You see, it’s this way.… Out in th’ breaks there’s a bunch of Rebs-leastways they claim as how they’s Rebs—still holdin’ out. They hit an’ run, raidin’ ranches an’ mines; they held up a coach a while back. An’ so far they’ve ridden rings round th’ cap’n. Now he thinks as how any Reb blowin’ in town could be one of ’em, comin’ to sniff out some good pickin’s. So anyone as can’t explain hisself proper to th’ cap’n gits locked up out at camp till he can—”
    “Trifle highhanded, ain’t he?”
    “Well, th’ cap’n’s for law an’ order, an’ he’s army. But folks ain’t likin’ it too much. So far he’s been doin’ it though.”
    Drew frowned. So even this far away from the scene of old battles the war still smoldered; the black bitterness of defeat was made harder by the victor. Drew’s hand rubbed across the bulge beneath his shirt. In one pocket of the money belt were his papers, among them the parole written out in Gainesville which could prove he had ridden with General Forrest’s command, far removed from any Arizona guerrilla force. But to produce that would change Drew Kirby to Drew Rennie, and that he did not want to do.
    “I rode with General Forrest, attached to General Buford’s Scouts,” he said absently.
    “General Forrest!” Callie glowed. “Lordy, Mister Kirby, that’s sure somethin’, it sure is! Only don’t be sayin’ that round Cap’n Bayliss neither. He has him a big hate for General Forrest—seems like Bayliss was a colonel once till th’ General outsmarted him back east. An’ there was a big smoke-up ’bout it. They cut th’ cap’n’s spurs for him, an’ he ended th’ war out here. Now he ain’t no patient man; he’s th’ kind as uses his hooks hard when he’s ridin’.
    “You know, you sure can tell a lot ’bout a man when you give a look at his hoss after he’s come off th’ trail. That there Shiloh colt o’ yours, an’ this here lady hoss, an’ that old mule…anyone can see as how they’s always been handled nice an’ easy. They ain’t got no spite ’gainst nobody as wants to rub ’em down an’ give ’em a feed. But some hosses what git brung in here—they’s white-eyed an’ randy, does you give ’em a straight stare. For that there’s always a reason. Mostly you can see what it is when you look good an’ steady at th’ men who was ridin’ ’em!”
    Drew laughed. “Glad I passed your test, Callie. Guess I’ll turn in now. Been a long day travelin’—”
    “Sure thing. An’ from up there you can hear this little old mare, does she need you.”
    The Kentuckian’s pack had been hoisted into the mow, and Callie had even humped up the fragrant hay to mattress his bedroll. A window was open to the night, and as Drew stretched out wearily, he could hear the distant tinkle of a guitar, perhaps from the Four Jacks. Somewhere a woman began to sing, and the liquid Spanish words lulled him asleep.
    He roused suddenly, his hand flashing under his head before he returned to full consciousness, fingers tightening on the Colt he had placed there. Not the mare—no—rather the pound of running feet and then a cry.…
    “No, señor , no!