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Updated: June 1, 2025
Draw on the stores for any need you may have—" "Gracias, Don Cazar." It was the thanks of equal to equal. "You have some late news of the wild ones?" "Only that the pinto still runs near the well." "That spotted one—sí, he is an Apache for cunning, for deviltry of spirit. It may be that this time he will not be the lucky one. There is in him a demon.
That was Rennie’s Range—cultivated fields, fruit orchards, manadas of fine horses. Don Cazar supplied Tucson and the army posts with vegetables and superb hams. He had organized a matchless company of Pima Indian Scouts after the army pulled out in ’61, had fought Apaches, but had sided with neither Union nor Confederate forces.
So here he was now—just where Bayliss had promised to see him—in an army detention cell, with no proof of identity and the circumstantial evidence against him piling up by the minute. All they needed was some definite proof to tie him to Kitchell and he was lost. He had to pin his hopes on Anse—and Don Cazar. Drew ground his boot heel into the dirt floor.
"Topham, Topham planned this?" Rennie still showed surprise. "I don’t—" A bird called flutingly. Rennie stiffened. Men moved, up slope, into cover, without direction. "You two ... get up there, behind those pointed rocks," Don Cazar directed with a stab of his finger. "I’ll be right behind you."
"It sure must go hard with a man to have his son turn out a wild one," commented the third. Drew’s cup was at his lips, but he did not drink. Whose son? Rennie’s? "No son by blood, that much comfort Don Cazar has. But foster ties are also strong. And the boy is still very young—" "A rattler with only one button on the tail carries as much poison as a ten-button one.
Their leader, a slender man with dusty gold lace banding his high collar, came directly to Rennie. "Don Cazar." His Spanish was a flood in which Drew was lost almost immediately, but Anse listened with parted lips and then translated a quick account. "This here’s th’ Coronel. He an’ his men was bushwhacked.
Those qualities, rather than fighting power, were what he believed he needed now. With luck—always with a large-sized helping of luck! "Now that you have that bucked out, how about a little sound reasoning?" Hunt Rennie still held his position, riding stirrup to stirrup with Drew. The worst of it was, Don Cazar was right. This was no time for raw emotion to replace thinking.
Rennie’s foster son was now riding inspection between one water-hole fortification and another. But Drew was uncertain just how he would rub along with Shannon in the future. "Señor Kirby, Don Cazar—he would speak with you in the Casa Grande," León Rivas called through one of the patio side windows. "Coming." Drew left the huddle of his possessions on the bunk.
All he seems to have learned in the war is how to use those guns of his to lord it over anyone he believes he can push around. And someday he’ll try to push the wrong man—" Don Cazar was staring ahead of him now at Drew and Shiloh. But Drew knew that Hunt Rennie was not seeing either man or horse, but a mental picture which was not too pleasing. "He’s just a boy."
At first sight there was no evidence of men lying in wait, but from the heights over which the Pimas brought their charges, Drew caught glimpses of men crouched behind sheltering rocks. The bulk of the Range posse was gathered in a hollow on the south side of the pass and it was there that Greyfeather delivered his catch. Don Cazar surveyed them almost without interest.
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