The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

turning-posts. Drew knocked on the age-darkened surface of the big door.
    “Kirby? Come in.”
    Here in contrast to the brilliant sunlight of the patio was a dusky coolness. There were no glass panes in the windows. Manta, the unbleached muslin which served to cover such openings in the frontier ranches, was tacked taut, allowing in air but only subdued light. The walls had been smoothly plastered, and as in Topham’s office, lengths of colorful woven materials and a couple of Navajo blankets served as hangings. Rugs of cougar and wolf skin were scattered on the beaten earth of the floor. There was a tall carved cupboard with a grilled door, a bookcase, and two massive chests shoved back against the walls. And over the stone mantel of the fireplace hung a picture of a morose-looking, bearded man wearing a steel breastplate, the canvas dim and dark with age and smoke.
    Don Cazar was seated at a table as massive as the chests, a pile of papers before him flanked by two four-branch candelabra of native silver. Bartolomé Rivas’ more substantial bulk weighed down the rawhide seat of another chair more to one side.
    “Sit down—” Rennie nodded to the seat in front of the table. “Smoke?” He pushed forward a silver box holding the long cigarillos of the border country. Drew shook his head.
    “Whisky? Wine?” He gestured to a tray with waiting glasses.
    “Sherry.” Drew automatically answered without thought.
    “What do you think of the stock you saw down in the corral?” Don Cazar poured a honey-colored liquid from the decanter into a small glass.
    As the Kentuckian raised it to sip, the scent of the wine quirked time for him, making this for a fleeting moment the dining room at Red Springs during a customary after-dinner gathering of the men of the household. The talk there, too, had been of horses—always horses. Then Drew came back in a twitch of eyelid to the here and now, to Hunt Rennie watching him with a measuring he did not relish, to Bartolomé’s round face with its close-to-hostile expression. Deliberately Drew sipped again before answering the question.
    “I’d say, suh, if they’re but a sample of Range stock, the breed is excellent. However—”
    “However what, señor ?” Bartolomé’s eyes challenged Drew. “In this territory, even in Sonora, there are none to compare with the horses of this hacienda.”
    “That is not what I was about to say, Señor Rivas. But if Don Cazar wishes to try the eastern methods of training, these horses are too old. You begin with a yearling colt, not three-year-olds.”
    “To break a foal! What madness!” Now Bartolomé’s face expressed shock.
    “Not breaking,” Drew corrected, “training. It is another method altogether. One puts a weanling on a rope halter, accustoms him to the feel of the hackamore, of being with men. Then he grows older knowing no fear or strangeness.”
    The Mexican looked from Drew to Don Cazar, his shock fading to puzzlement. Rennie nodded.
    “ Sí, amigo , so it is done—in Kentucky and Virginia. But this timewe must deal with the older ones. Can you modify those methods, gentle without breaking? A colt with the fire still in him, but saddle-broke, is worth much more—”
    “I can try. But you have already said, suh, that you don’t allow rough breakin’ here.” Drew’s half suspicion crystallized into belief. Don Cazar had not really wanted another wrangler at all; he had wanted Shiloh—and his foals. Well, perhaps he would find he did have a wrangler who could deliver the goods into the bargain.
    “No, but it is always well to learn new ways. I have been in Kentucky, Kirby. Perhaps some of their methods would not work on the Range. On the other hand, others might. As you have said—we can but try.” He picked up the top sheet of paper and began to read:
    “ Bayos-blancos —light duns—two. Bayos-azafranados —saffrons—one. Bayos-narajados —orange duns—none—”
    “There was one,” Bartolomé interrupted. “The mare, she was lost at Cañon del Palomas.”
    Rennie frowned, “ Sí , the mare. Bayos-tigres —striped ones—three. Bayos-cebrunos —smoked duns—two. Grullas —blues—four. Roans—six. Blacks—three. Bays—four. Twenty-five three-year-olds. You won’t be expected to take on the whole remuda , Kirby. Select any six of your own choosing and use your methods of gentling on them. We’ll make a test this way.”
    Bartolomé uttered a sound closer to a snort than anything