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Updated: June 29, 2025
"Th’ boys"—he nodded at Drew and Anse—"were sittin’ at that table, mindin’ their own business. Helms, he went over an’ picked up a book——" "A book!" Muller’s craggy features mirrored astonishment. "What book? Why?" Topham moved and suddenly they were all watching him. He stooped, picked up the dark-brown volume, and a torn page fluttered to the floor.
"Sam, one o’ them thar schoolboys is breathin’ down yore neck kinda hot like," the tallest of the bar row observed. Anse jerked against Drew’s hold. There was no expression on his thin face, but the old saber scar from lip to eye on his left cheek was suddenly twice as noticeable. Sam reached up against the bar, squirmed around, the book still in his hand.
Anse was only a shadow among shadows, a voice out of the dark now. "You made up your mind about what you’re goin’ to do when this is all over?" "Pull out—California maybe. I don’t know." "Sure you don’t want to stay?" "No!" Drew put explosive emphasis into his reply. "A man can be too stubborn an’ stiff-necked for his own good—" "A man has to do what he has to," Drew snapped. "I’m turnin’ in.
This he said, especially, in reference to the one spot which presented at least a possibility of being scaled. Here Captain de Vergor, with a hundred Canadian troops, were posted. The battalion of Guienne had been ordered to encamp close at hand, and the post, which was called Anse du Foulon, was but a mile and a half distant from Quebec.
"Why do I stay, suh?" Anse protested when Don Cazar had finished. "You can tend that arm better on the ground than in the saddle." "Ain’t no hurt there any more." Anse hurriedly pulled it from the sling. "Anyways, that ain’t m’ shootin’ hand, neither!" But one look at Hunt Rennie’s face reduced him to muttering. Drew watched their preparations quietly.
"Now"—he gave an order he obviously expected to be obeyed—"if you do find anything, don’t try to take over yourselves. That’s final. This is nothing to rush into just to burn powder. And above all I want no mixing it up with any army patrol riding south. Do you both understand?" Drew nodded. "Yes, suh," Anse replied promptly. "We jus’ git high behind an’ take care.
They told how the Spaniards had quarreled amongst themselves, how the fort had been attacked by unfriendly Indians from another island, and how all the white men had been slain. Thus ended the first white colony ever planted in Western lands. All traces of it have vanished, and upon the spot where La Navida stood there is now a little fishing village called Petit Anse.
And it was Greyfeather who pointed to them and to the way ahead, who gave an emphatic wave of the hand which was an order. Leading their horses, they obeyed, the Pimas falling in behind. The back-door route to the pass was a rough one. They had to leave the horses and climb, two of the Pimas always in sight behind, guns ready. Anse sighed. "Seems like we have lots of luck—all of it plain bad.
Perhaps in all this part of the country there are not more than half a hundred warriors—and those scattered in small bands. I do not say that this is truth, Señor Kirby. I only say that it would explain many things—such as why Kitchell has not been caught." "Makes sense," Anse commented. "Always did hear as how Apaches were meaner’n snakes but they wasn’t stupid.
I learned it off a master-singer, ole Anse Peters, up in God's country whar men are men en the women are glad of it. But what's led ye off on that wagon track, Jim? Why don't ye git a saxophone en tune in on some jazz? Be modern, like the rest of us fellers. Here you are, slouchin' around without a dressin' jacket er slippers en talkin' 'bout an ole song that's in the discard. Shame on ye!
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