Rebel Spurs | Page 7

ain't likin' it
too much. So far he's been doin' it though."
Drew frowned. So even this far away from the scene of old battles the
war still smoldered; the black bitterness of defeat was made harder by
the victor. Drew's hand rubbed across the bulge beneath his shirt. In
one pocket of the money belt were his papers, among them the parole
written out in Gainesville which could prove he had ridden with

General Forrest's command, far removed from any Arizona guerrilla
force. But to produce that would change Drew Kirby to Drew Rennie,
and that he did not want to do.
"I rode with General Forrest, attached to General Buford's Scouts," he
said absently.
"General Forrest!" Callie glowed. "Lordy, Mister Kirby, that's sure
somethin', it sure is! Only don't be sayin' that 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, señor, 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