the three divisions held his papers. There
were those for the horses, the parole he had brought from Gainesville, the
two letters he had not been able to bring himself to deliver to Hunt
Rennie. One was from Cousin Merry, and the other was a formal,
close-to-legal statement drawn up by Uncle Forbes' attorney. Both were
intended to prove the identity of one Drew Rennie beyond any reasonable
doubt.

Drew's fingers stilled above that pocket. It felt too thick, bunchy under
his pinching. Whatever--? He squirmed around, free of the blanket, and
began to pull off his gloves.

"What's th' matter?" the Texan began in a whisper.

"Just a minute!" It was a clumsy business, pulling the belt free from
under his layers of heavy clothing. But Drew got it across his knee. His
chilled fingers picked at the fastening of the pocket. There was no packet
of papers there--neither the sheets for the horse, nor the much-creased
strip of the parole, nor the sealed envelope which had held both letters.
Instead he plucked out what felt like shreds of grass and leaves, dry and
crackling.

"What is it?" Anse leaned forward.

"My papers--they're gone!" Drew rummaged frantically, turning the pocket
inside out. When--who?

"What papers, _compadre_?"

Drew explained.

"You've been wearin' that there belt constantly, ain't you?"

"Yes. Except--" He suddenly tensed. "That night, down by the swimmin' hole,
when you thought you saw somethin' in the bushes ... remember?"

"I remember. Looky here, who'd want 'em--an' why?"

"Shannon!" And in that moment Drew was as certain of that as if he had
actually seen Johnny stripping them out of the belt.

"How'd he know you were carryin' anythin'?"

"He knew I had the belt. I left it with Topham when I raced Shiloh, and he
saw me give it to him. And, Anse, he must have heard you call me 'Rennie'
in the Jacks! If he did, he'd want to find out more--Rennie's not a common
name. And Shannon's not stupid. He'd figure anything valuable I'd be
carryin' would be in this belt."

"How come you didn't know it was gone?"

"I don't know. Seemed just as heavy and that pocket didn't ride any
different when I had it on. No reason to open it lately."

"So--what's he got? Your hoss papers, your parole outta th' army, an' them
two letters. Yeah, he's got jus' 'bout all he needs to make one big war
smoke for you."

"And I can't prove he has them," Drew said bleakly.

"Jus' by makin' him one little private fire,"