The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

No es verdad —it is not true! Teodoro, he meant no harm—!”
    Drew scrambled to the window. Out in the alley below, three figures reeled in the circle of light afforded by the door lantern. The Kentuckian marked the upward swing of a quirt lash, saw a smaller shape fling up an arm in a vain attempt to ward off the blow. Another, the one who cried out, was belaboring the flogger with empty fists, and the voice was that of a girl!
    To slide down the loft ladder was again nearer instinct than planned action. Shiloh snorted as Drew’s boots rapped on the stable floor. The Kentuckian had no idea of the reason for that fight, but he ran out with the vague notion that an impartial referee was needed.
    “You there—what’s goin’ on!” Sergeant Rennie came to life again in the snapped demand.
    The one who fled the quirt came up against the side of the building almost shoulder to shoulder with Drew. And he was only a boy, about Callie’s age, his black hair flopping over eyes wide with shock and fright. Drew’s hand moved, and the lantern light glinted plainly on the barrel of the Colt. For a moment they were all still as if sight of the weapon had frozen them.
    The attacker faced Drew directly. He was young and handsome, if you discounted a darkening bruise already puffing under one eye, a lip cut and swelling, a scowl twisting rather heavy brows and making an ugly square of his mistreated mouth.
    “An’ who th’ devil are you?”
    His voice was thick and slurred. Drew guessed that he had not only been in a fight but that he was partly drunk. Yet, as he faced the stranger eye to eye, the Kentuckian was as wary as he had been when bellying down a Tennessee ridge crest to scout a Yankee railroad blockhouse. He knew what he fronted; this was more than a drunken bully—a really dangerous man.
    That queer little moment of silence lengthened, shutting the two of them up—alone. Drew could not really name the emotion he felt. Deliberately he tried to subdue the sensation as he turned to the girl.
    “What’s the matter?”
    At first glance he might have thought her a boy, for she wore hide breeches and boots, a man’s shirt now hanging loosely about her hips. She jerked her head, and a thick braid flopped from under her wide-brimmed hat.
    “ Señor, por favor —please—we have done no wrong. We are the Trinfans—Teodoro and me. Teodoro, he finds Señor Juanito’s purse in the road, he follows to give it back. He is not a bandido —he is not espía , a spy one. We are mustangers. Ask of Don Reese, of Señor Kells. Why, Señor Juanito, do you say Teodoro spy on you, why you hit him with the whip?”
    “Not thief, not spy!” The boy beside Drew dropped a wealed hand from his face. “The man who says Teodoro Trinfan is ladrón —bad one—him I kill!”
    Drew’s left arm swept out across the boy’s chest, pinning him back against the stable.
    “Now, what’s your story?” the Kentuckian asked the man he fronted.
    “An’ jus’ what’s all this smokin’ ’bout?” Kells came out. “You, Shannon, what’re you doin’ here? Been drinkin’ again, fightin’, too, by th’ look of you.”
    “ Señor Kells.” The girl caught at the older man’s arm. “ Por favor, señor , we are not thieves, not spies. We come after Señor Juanito because he dropped his purse. Then he see Teodoro coming, he not listen—he beat on him with quirt. You know, we are honest peoples!”
    “Now then, Faquita, don’t you git so upset, gal!” She was wailing aloud, making no effort to wipe away the tears running down her cheeks. “Johnny, what kinda game you tryin’? You know these kids are straight; them an’ their ol’ man’s come to work th’ Range for wild ones on Rennie’s own askin’. Takin’ a quirt to th’ kid, eh?” Kells’ voice slid up the scale. “You sure have yourself a snootful tonight! Now you jus’ walk yourself outta here on th’ bounce. I’m doin’ th‘ sayin’ of what goes on, on my own property.”
    “You do a lotta sayin’, Kells.” The scowl was gone; Shannon’s battered mouth was actually smiling. But, Drew decided, he liked the scowl better than the smile and the tone of the voice accompanying it. “Some men oughtta put a hobble on their tongues. Sure, I know these young whelps an’ their pa too. Sniffin’ round where they ain’t wanted. An’ mustangers ain’t above throwin’ a sticky loop when they see a hoss worth it. We ain’t blind on th’ Range.” His head