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Every man, woman, and child in those adobe buildings had reason to be thankful for their skill and cunning—the web of protection Rennie’s Pima Scouts had woven in this river valley. "I’m Kirby, Drew Kirby." He hastened to match one introduction with another. "This is my first time in the valley—" "From th’ east, eh?" "Texas."
The fact that Rennie’s plan seemed a gamble did not make it any easier to follow. But the Kentuckian could think of nothing better to offer. The moon was rising as they came to the water hole near the mustangers’ camp. Men and animals drank together, and when Drew dismounted his weariness hit—hard. Fatigue was a gray cloud in his brain, a weight on arms, legs, body.
A horse clattered up from behind at a pace not in keeping with the rough footing, and the rider drew level with Kitchell. "Soldiers comin’, Colonel. Got ’em a couple o’ them Pima Scouts sniffin’ th’ trail an’ some o’ Rennie’s men with ’em, too!" "It ain’t true!" Shannon’s protest was loud. "I seed em—bright an’ clear—mos’ up to where we stopped last.
"Still south...." Teodoro pointed out the hoof prints deep in the soft earth beside the water hole. Drew steadied himself with one hand on the stirrup leathers as he stooped to see more clearly. He was groggy with lack of sleep and felt that if he once allowed himself to slip completely to ground level, he would not get up again. "Rennie’s riders?"
If Bayliss wanted to use Drew’s connection with the Range as a weapon in some scheme against Hunt Rennie, then Hunt Rennie’s son was only too willing to clear out. Perhaps he should clear out even farther and head for California. Drew began to think about that. There was Sage. She couldn’t hope to make such a trip for maybe six months.
They have them a war goin’ on down there; a man can always git ahead in wartime does he like soldierin’. But I weren’t sure ’bout goin’, till I found out as how I might jus’ be pushed out, anyway." "Why did you think that? Hunt Rennie’s always treated you as a real son, hasn’t he?" "Like a real son? Like his idea of a son, you mean. Work hard—an’ havin’ books pushed at me.
There had been that time Uncle Murray had caught him down at the creek, making paper boats. How could a child that young know one kind of paper from another? But Hunt Rennie’s son was judged to have torn up a letter with deliberate malice, not just taken paper found conveniently on the veranda. Was he four then, or even younger? But he could remember the punishment very vividly.
Rennie’s professional assistance in superintending the works. Mr. George Rennie had an interview with the Board on the subject, at which he proposed to undertake the chief superintendence, making six visits in each year, and stipulating that he should have the appointment of the resident engineer.
He was a man who could not be depended upon, who had sprung their trap because he cared more for a horse than he did for the success of Rennie’s mission. And in a way Hunt Rennie was perfectly just in that judgment. If it were all to do over again, Drew knew he would make exactly the same choice. Shiloh was his—about the only good thing he had ever possessed, or might ever have in the future.
"Johnny, what kinda game you tryin’? You know these kids are straight; them an’ their ol’ man’s come to work th’ Range for wild ones on Rennie’s own askin’. Takin’ a quirt to th’ kid, eh?" Kells’ voice slid up the scale. "You sure have yourself a snootful tonight! Now you jus’ walk yourself outta here on th’ bounce. I’m doin’ th’ sayin’ of what goes on, on my own property."
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