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"And Señor Juanito—for this he will hate you!" "Because I did not tell who I was at the start?" Drew asked. "No—because you are truly Don Cazar’s son. Always Don Cazar, he treated Señor Juanito as a son, but I do not think that was enough. Señor Juanito, he is one who must have everything, all. Even when he was a boy, he was like that.
We ride out and find him—shot, dragged with the rope. That is not Apache trick, that, but the work of Kitchell and his snakes!" "Peace, amigo." Don Cazar’s raised finger silenced his man. "Bartolomé is right, Bayliss. Kitchell is beginning to nibble at the Range. He has not many sources of supply left.
Drew’s work on the Range settled, Rennie was about to get to what he really wanted. But Don Cazar’s first words were a little startling. "We’ll keep him close-in the water corral. To turn a stud of eastern breeding loose is dangerous——" "You mean he might be stolen, suh?" Drew clicked his empty glass down on the table. "No, he might be killed!" And Rennie’s tone indicated he meant just that.
What he saw of the resources of this private fort led Drew to accept the other stories he had heard of the Range, like the one that Don Cazar’s men practiced firing blindfolded at noise targets to be prepared for night raids. The place was self-contained and almost self-supporting, with stores of food, good water, its own forge and leather shop, its own craftsmen and experts.
The walls were twenty-five inches thick, and mounted on the roof of the stable, facing the hills from which Apache attacks usually came, was a small brass cannon—Don Cazar’s legacy from troops marching away in ’61.
Johnny warn’t more’n four o’ thereabouts when Don Cazar went back to Texas an’ got him. Don Cazar’s been like a pa to Johnny since, an’ a mighty good one, too. But when th’ Rangers was round here in ’62 Johnny—he had a big row an’ run off to join ’em. Jus’ a half-growed kid, not big ’nough to raise a good brush o’ hair on his chin yet.
Rennie ought to cut losses and give that kid the boot. The way he’s going he could involve Hunt in a real mess," Cahill said. "You are Don Cazar’s good friend, Don Reese, his compadre of many years. Can you not do something?" "Don Lorenzo, all men have blind spots. And Johnny Shannon is Rennie’s. Bob Shannon helped free Hunt out of Mex prison in the war and was killed doing it.
Drew saw the involuntary spasm of Don Cazar’s lips, the shadow of an expression which might mean he anticipated a distasteful scene to come. But the quirk disappeared as he turned to face the man in the blue uniform. "Captain Bayliss." It was acknowledgment rather than a greeting, delivered in a cool tone. "I want to see you, Rennie!"
In a couple of days the wagon train would head on north to Tucson, but now the activity in the plaza was a mixture of market day and fiesta. Small traders from Sonora took advantage of the protection afforded by Don Cazar’s outriders and had trailed along with their own products, now being spread out and hawked.
No, that’s the truth. As for losing Kitchell—we may not have. Those who got away have Greyfeather, Nye, and others on their trail. And I do not think they will find such hunters easy to fool. Also, we have a prisoner...." Don Cazar’s acceptance of their failure was so placid that Drew was led to make a wild guess. "Not Kitchell himself!" Rennie smiled.
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