"Sí, Señor Kells. You, señor," she spoke to Drew, "to you[pg 028] we owe a big debt. Come, Teodoro!" She caught at her brother and pulled him away.
"What makes a kid go sour?" Kells asked of the shadows beyond rather than of Drew. "Johnny warn't no real trouble 'fore he skinned off to ride with Howard. Sure he was always a wild one, but no more'n a lotta kids. An' he'd answer th' lead rein. 'Course we don't know what happened to him in Texas after th' big retreat th' Rebs made outta here. Could be he larned a lot what was no good. Now he sops up whisky when he hits town an' picks fights, like he didn't git his belly full of that in th' war. You can't never tell how a kid's gonna turn out."
"Hey! Mister Kirby, you better git in here!" Callie hailed from the stable. "Th' mare ... she's...."
Drew jammed the Colt under his belt and ran.
The scent of hay, of grain, of horse.... Drew's head rolled on the pillow improvised from hay and blanket as sun lay hot across his face. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and then came fully awake to remember the night before.
It took only a minute to get down the ladder into Shadow's stall where a broom tail jiggled up and down above absurdly long baby legs and small rounded haunches. Shadow's small daughter breakfasted. Callie squatted on his heels near-by watching the process benignly.
"Ain't she 'bout th' best-favored filly you ever saw?" he asked. "How come all your hosses is grays? Shiloh her pa?"
Drew shook his head. "No, her sire's Storm Cloud. But all that line are grays."
"This Storm Cloud, he's a runnin' hoss?"
"About the runnin'est horse in his part of the country,[pg 029] Callie. This filly ought to pick up her heels some, if she takes after her dam and sire."