Rebel Spurs | Page 7

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, se?or, no! 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.
"Se?or, por favor--please--we have done no wrong. We are the Trinfans--Teodoro and me. Teodoro, he finds Se?or 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 Se?or Kells. Why, Se?or 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