The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

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 sametrouble 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.
    CHAPTER 3
    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