The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

caches? Or else left by someone who cleared out in ’61 and had to travel light. If anything remains, perhaps Lutterfield can locate it for us later. Anyway this”—Rennie took the book box from Drew, clapped the cover over, hiding the treasure—“won’t go to Mexico now. And if the owner is still alive, we may even find him—who knows? You had your sleep out, boy?”
    Drew found Rennie’s expression one of indifference. Maybe Don Cazar no longer regarded him with the cold dislike Drew had met at the camp, but they were still strangers. What he had once said back in Kentucky at a remote and distant time was very true now. “Maybe Hunt Rennie doesn’t know I exist; maybe we won’t even like each other if and when we do meet…I don’t know.…”
    Now Drew thought he did know. Was this insurmountable barrier all his fault? Because he had been so sure he wanted to go it on his own—come to his father as an equal and not a beggar? But could he ever have acted differently? Too independent, too defensive always—Alexander Mattock had made him like that. Now it seemed that his grandfather had won, after all. Because his grandson was the kind of man he was, there would be no meeting with Hunt Rennie to claim kinship, nothing more than what now existed.
    “I’m all right.” After too long a pause, Drew replied to his father’s question. “Do we just keep on sittin’ here?”
    “If necessary, Chino, pass those supplies you brought in. We eat cold, at least for now.”
    “You look ready to up saddle ’n ride.” Anse was waiting behind Drew’s rock. His arm rested in a sling with a neat and reasonably clean bandage about his wound.
    “How’s that hole?” Drew asked with renewed concern.
    “Nothin’ much more’n a nick. Say, th’ Old Man’s like a real doc, ain’t he? Carries doc’s things in his saddlebags an’ patched me up last night so I’m near as good as new. After I drunk th’ wrinkles smooth outta my belly an’ had me some shut-eye, why, I’m as right as four aces in any man’s hand! ’Course I sure could do with some coffee—’bout strong ’nough to float a hoss shoe gentle like. But we ain’t bendin’ lip over that this sunup. Lordy, this jerky sure gives a man’s chewers a workout!”
    They chewed away at the dark sun-dried carne of the border country. There was about as much flavor in it as in a piece of wood, but it kept a man’s insides busy and about half satisfied. And they did have water.
    Drew looked out over the land about them. Rennie had their small force stationed to cover every approach to the water hole, and with the Pimas here too, Drew was sure that they would not be surprised. Would Kitchell follow the pattern Rennie expected—try to water here? And then strike for the south? With his men scattered, many killed or taken at the pass, he had very little choice.
    For some reason the quartet of fugitives must have been trailing quite a distance behind the main band, and so had been warned in time by the gunfire. Was one of that four Shannon? And what would it mean to Rennie if Shannon did turn up now with Kitchell?
    Drew jerked back against the boulder, reacting to a screech from somewhere out in that wild country—a fierce, mad sound which tore at the nerves. He had heard its like before, but never rising so to the pitch of raw intensity. It was the challenge of a fighting stallion, one of the most terrifying sounds ever to break fromthe throat of an animal.
    From the pocket meadow came the answering squeals of their own mounts, the pounding of hoofs as they fought their stake ropes.
    “ Don Cazar!” It was Teodoro. “The Pinto comes—and would fight!”
    Again that shriek of rage and utter defiance. The rocks echoed it eerily, and Drew found it hard to judge either distance or direction. The wind was rising, too, scooping up dust to throw against men and boulders. But that wild stud could not be too far away, and what had stirred him to this point of vocal outburst?
    “Teodoro,” Rennie called, “get back there and see if you can quiet those horses.”
    Drew reached for the carbine he had taken from the boot on the saddle of the captured bay. Army issue…Spencer. He appraised it with the sharp, quick scrutiny of a man who had had to depend on enemy weapons before. Just how had this fallen into outlaw hands? The arm was well kept, ready for action.
    Horses turned mean, turned man-killer at times. And the Pinto was reputed to be a murderer of his