take 'em back to th' Range with you, Mister Kirby?" Callie came
down from the loft.

"Yes. I'll need a cart and driver though. We'll have to give the foal a
lift. Know anyone for hire, Callie?"

"I'll ask around. Have any trouble comin' up?"

"No. Greyfeather and Runnin' Fox were scoutin' for us."

"Stage was jumped yesterday on th' Sonora road," Callie volunteered. "One
men got him a bullet in th' shoulder, but they got away clean. It was
Kitchell, th' driver thought. Captain Bayliss took out a patrol right
away. You plannin' on goin' back with Kitchell out?"

"Don't know," Drew replied absently. Better leave that decision to Nye; he
knew the country and the situation. "You ask about the cart, Callie, but
don't make it definite. Have to see how things turn out."

Drew started for the Four Jacks to meet Nye. Back here in Tubacca he was
conscious how much he had allowed his personal affairs to drift from day
to day. 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. A seesaw to
make a man dizzy, or maybe the vertigo he felt was the product of too much
sun, dust, and riding.

There was someone at a far table in the cantina, but otherwise the dusky
room was empty. Drew went directly to the bar. "Got any coffee, Fowler?"

"Sure thing. Nye was in here 'bout five minutes ago. Said for you to wait
here for him. You hear 'bout Kitchell holdin' up th' stage?"

"Callie told me. Said the army patrol went out after him."

"Yeah, don't mean they'll nail him though. He's as good as an Apache 'bout
keepin' undercover. Here's your coffee. Want some grub, too?"

The smell of coffee revived Drew's hunger. "Sure could use some. Haven't
eaten since we broke camp at sunup."

"Sing's in th' kitchen. I'll give him th' sign to rattle th' pans.
Say--been racin' that Shiloh of yours lately? Sure am glad I played a hunch
an' backed him against Oro." Fowler's red forelock bobbed over his high
forehead as he nodded vigorously.

"No racin' on the Range."

"Hope you're keepin' him closer. That border crew'd sure like to git a
rope on him! Down Sonora way one of them Mexes would dig right dow