Rebel Spurs | Page 9

put them
both out in the street. Señor Juanito he falls, drops purse. Teodoro picks
it up, and we follow. When we try to give it back Señor Juanito yell,
'spy,' hit with whip. That is the truth, por Dios, the truth!"
"Yeah, sounds jus' like Johnny these days. Him with a snootful an'
somebody yellin' Reb and Yank. Some men can't forgit an' don't seem
to want to. Johnny sure takes it hard bein' on th' losin' side--turned him
dirt mean. Now, you kids, you stayin' in town?"
"Sí." Faquita nodded vigorously. "With Tía María."
"Then you git there an' stay clear of Johnny Shannon, sabe? No more
trouble."
"Sí, Señor Kells. You, señor," she spoke to Drew, "to you we owe a big
debt. Come, Teodoro!" She caught at her brother and pulled him away.

"What makes a kid go sour?" Kells asked of the shadows beyond rather
than of Drew. "Johnny warn't no real trouble 'fore he skinned off to ride
with Howard. Sure he was always a wild one, but no more'n a lotta kids.
An' he'd answer th' lead rein. 'Course we don't know what happened to
him in Texas after th' big retreat th' Rebs made outta here. Could be he
larned a lot what was no good. Now he sops up whisky when he hits
town an' picks fights, like he didn't git his belly full of that in th' war.
You can't never tell how a kid's gonna turn out."
"Hey! Mister Kirby, you better git in here!" Callie hailed from the
stable. "Th' mare ... she's...."
Drew jammed the Colt under his belt and ran.

The scent of hay, of grain, of horse.... Drew's head rolled on the pillow
improvised from hay and blanket as sun lay hot across his face. He
rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and then came fully awake to
remember the night before.
It took only a minute to get down the ladder into Shadow's stall where a
broom tail jiggled up and down above absurdly long baby legs and
small rounded haunches. Shadow's small daughter breakfasted. Callie
squatted on his heels near-by watching the process benignly.
"Ain't she 'bout th' best-favored filly you ever saw?" he asked. "How
come all your hosses is grays? Shiloh her pa?"
Drew shook his head. "No, her sire's Storm Cloud. But all that line are
grays."
"This Storm Cloud, he's a runnin' hoss?"
"About the runnin'est horse in his part of the 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 same trouble
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