xas Ranger. And in
'61 the Ranger's son, Anson Kirby, had jingled off in them to another war.
Then Kirby had disappeared during that last scout in Tennessee, vanishing
into nowhere when he fell wounded from the saddle, smashing into a
bushwhackers' hideout.

On a Sunday in May of '65, back in Gainesville, when Forrest's men had
finally accepted surrender and the deadness of defeat, a Union trooper had
worn those spurs into church. And Boyd Barrett had sold his horse the same
day to buy back those silver bits because he knew what they meant to his
cousin Drew. Now here Drew was, half the continent away from Gainesville
and Tennessee, wearing Anse's spurs and half of Anse's name--to find a
father he had not known was still alive, until last year.

The Kentuckian was sure of only one thing right now, he was not going to
enter a town or a stretch of country where Hunt Rennie was _the_ big man,
and claim to be Rennie's unknown son. Maybe later he could come to a
decision about his action. But first he wanted to be sure. There might
well be no place for a Drew Rennie in Hunt Rennie's present life. They
were total strangers and perhaps it must be left that way.

There was no reason for him to claim the kinship. He was independent. Drew
Kirby had a mule and two good horses, maybe three by tomorrow. Aunt
Marianna had insisted that he accept part of the Mattock estate, even
though his Kentucky grandfather had left him penniless. He'd made his
choice without hesitation: the colt Shiloh, the mare Shadow, and she bred
to Storm Cloud for what should be a prize foal. His aunt had made him take
more--gold in his money belt, enough to give him a start in the west. He
was his own man, not Rennie's son, unless he chose....

Two more lamps had been lighted in the cantina. Drew sat down at a table.
There was a swish of full skirts, and he looked up at a girl. She smiled
as if she liked what she saw of this brown-faced stranger with quiet,
disciplined features and eyes older than his years.

"You like, _senor_ ... tequila ... whiskee ... food?"

"Food, _senorita_. You see a most hungry man."

She laughed and then frowned anxiously. "Ah, but, _senor_, this is a time
when the cupboard is, as you would say, bare! When the wagons come--then
what a difference! Now, tortillas, frijoles, maybe some fruit ... sweet
for the tongue, like wine in the throat. Perhaps an egg--"

"To me that is a feast." Drew fell into the formal speech which seeme