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They threaded their way to the cantina where the officer dismounted and went inside. The troopers continued to sit their saddles and regard the scene about them wistfully. "Looks like a duty patrol," Fenner remarked. "Maybe Cap’n Bayliss. He’s gittin’ some biggety idear as how it’s up t’ him t’ police this here town. Does he start t’ crow too loud, Don Cazar or Reese Topham’ll cut his spurs.
Hay to sleep on was fine; he had had far worse beds during the past four years. But a hot bath to be followed by a meal which was not the jerky, corn meal, bitter coffee of trail cooking! His pace quickened into a trot but slackened again as he neared the Four Jacks and remembered all the precautions he must take in Tubacca. In the big room of the cantina oil lamps made yellow pools of light.
Peon soldiers, drowsing in the sun or clustering around the cantinas, stared stupidly at them as they flashed past. Then a drunken major shouted a challenge from the doorway of a cantina and began vociferating orders, and as they left the plaza behind they could hear rising the familiar mob-cry "Kill the Gringoes!"
Her apparent obliviousness to all that under the circumstances might have troubled her was a subtle compliment to himself, and soon he, too, forgot that there was anything in the world beyond their present relation to each other. It was on their return to the house that the climax came, leaving him strangely shaken. Their course took them past a tiny cantina.
"Had to draw a new name outta th’ deck?" Anse’s grin faded; his eyes narrowed. "All right, what’s the goin’ handle?" "Kirby, Drew Kirby ... I’ll explain later." He had given the warning only just in time. Fowler and Hamilcar were coming from the back room of the cantina, and there was a stir at the table. Johnny was sitting up, his head swaying from side to side, his eyes on Drew and Anse.
Of course he had seen very little of Hunt Rennie at the Stronghold; his father had ridden south on patrol with his own private posse shortly after his own arrival there. But whenever Drew thought seriously of the future he had that odd sense of dislocation and loss which he had first known on the night he had seen Don Cazar arrive at the cantina. Don Cazar—Hunt Rennie. Drew Kirby—Drew Rennie.
"Looky what we’ve got us here! Regular li’l schoolhouse right in this cantina!" The table moved an inch or so as a thick body brought up with a rush against it. A hand, matted with sun-bleached hair, made a grab for the book Drew had just laid down.
Blue blouses—a corporal’s guard of troopers—were pulling up by the cantina hitch rail as Drew came out into the plaza. Muller’s men probably, he thought. But now he was more intent on Anse’s needs. Few people had ever broken through the crust of self-sufficiency the Kentuckian had begun to grow in early childhood.
Navajo blankets lay under the saddles, and serapes were folded over the shoulder of one rider, tied behind the cantle of the other. They pulled up before the cantina, and one man took the reins of both mounts. If the riders’ clothing and horse furnishings were colorful, the horses themselves were equally striking. One was a chestnut, a warm, well-groomed red. But the other ... Drew stared.
Topham’s arm went about the shoulders under the black-and-silver jacket, drawing Don Cazar into the light, music, and excitement of the cantina. While Drew watched, the stouter back of Bartolomé cut off his first good look at his father. So ... that was Don Cazar—Hunt Rennie! Drew did not know what he had expected of their first meeting. Now he could not understand why he felt so chilled and lost.
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