"Will we be stopped long enough to stretch our legs?" he asked Crippen, who was unfolding his lanky frame from his hard hickory seat.
"Long enough to stretch them or shrink them or do anything you like with them," replied his companion, dragging down a dilapidated leather satchel from the overhead rack. "This here's Rebellion."
Fulwider's heart sank. Huddled between the Caribou and Big Hole mountains on the twisting thread of water that gave the Snake River Valley its name, the dowdy structures were scattered willy-nilly across a mud hollow, with no sign of a street or even a placard to identify them as anything but another of the depressing bone-pickers'shantytowns he had observed previously along the right-of-way.
A terrible dread seized him as he carried his bags onto the platform—not of death or danger, which would merely have stimulated the creative impulse that had brought him, but that his health would not return as quickly as he hoped and that he should have to spend the rest of his days amid such cruel boredom.
"Is it always like this?" he asked Crippen. A handful of bearded men in patched logging jackets stood on the platform, but made no move to greet the only two passengers who had alighted. The journalist suspected that watching the train come in was the highlight of their day.
"Why, hell, no," said the cowhand, around today's tobacco plug. "It will be like this here for a couple of days at the most, and then things will settle down and get downright dismal for a while."
The hotel was a square, three-story frame building, one of only two in the log village, whose sign running the length of the front porch identified it as the Assiniboin Inn. Though it was of fairly recent construction, the paint on one of the porch pillars came off in a grayish dust on Fulwider's sleeve when he brushed against it, and orange rust coated the iron sconces in which a lantern rested on either side of the door. Before going in, Crippen got his hammer and sack of nails from his satchel and fixed a fresh poster to the front of the building, which from the many other bills that already decorated it appeared to be something of a community bulletin board.
During the operation, Fulwider asked about the stench that seemed to be coming from a crooked alley winding behind the Assiniboin. Overpowering, it reminded him of the man in Bismarck.
"Pelts," came the reply. "That's where they tally them before paying out bounties. This here is the wolfing capital of the Northwest."
Far from elegant, the hotel lobby nonetheless carried a simple dignity in its sturdy design and utilitarian furnishings to which no amount of gilt fixtures or burgundy carpeting could add. A broad staircase of hand-rubbed oak led to the upper floors on the other side of a large desk. Behind this beamed a middle-aged clerk with a round, florid face and blond hair brushed back from a scanty widow's peak. When Crippen greeted him, Fulwider learned that the man's Christian name, unfortunately, was Thanatopsis.
"Is he in?" asked the foreman, after fielding a number of questions about his trip.
The clerk nodded. "With the others. He said to send you right up."
Crippen started in that direction, leaving behind the satchel. "Keep an eye on that. And take good care of my friend here from back East."
The journalist registered, assuring the clerk that R. G. stood for nothing, and carried his own bags upstairs after ascertaining that there was no bell captain. A number of men passed him on their way down.
Older men all, they wore suits of varying quality under knee-length overcoats and headgear ranging from derbies like Fulwider's to the storied ten-gallon Stetson, which had proven rarer out West than he had been led to believe. There was not a clean-shaven lip among them. To a man they moved with that air of being late for an important appointment that the journalist had so often noted in financiers on their way to and from the stock exchange.
Dale Crippen was on Fulwider's floor, deep in conversation with a square-rigged man who stood in an open doorway with his back to a room full of chairs upholstered in dark leather. As the easterner drew near, Crippen stopped in midsentence to introduce them.
Nelson Meredith was solid-looking, with a square face admirably suited for his sidewhiskers, and a head of thick, wavy auburn hair going silver at the temples. His suit was cut western style, his high boots tilted forward on two-inch heels and hand-tooled Mexican fashion, but Fulwider suspected that nothing like them was available in town, or anywhere else west of New Bond Street. He had a firm handshake and ruthless blue eyes that took in the new acquaintance from sole to crown.
"I hope you will enjoy your stay in my Idaho." His cultured English accent softened the rather jarring effect of the possessive pronoun.
The journalist responded with an inanity, and explained the official reason for his visit. Meredith laughed softly, a low, silken rumble that barely stirred the lines of his face.
"I fear that you will be disappointed," he said. "The sort of creature you are hunting no longer exists out here, if indeed he ever did. There is but one Wild Bill Hickok to a century."
"And yet I've reason to believe that others of his ilk are still available, if one is willing to look for them." Briefly he recounted the incident in the Bismarck saloon.
"North?" repeated the rancher, raising his eyebrows. "Asa North? The wolfer?"
"Sweet Jesus!" Crippen placed a hand to his high, bald forehead. "I never thought to put them together!"
Noting Fulwider's bewilderment, Meredith explained: "You'd have no way of knowing back East, but out here Asa North is a legend. Among his many exploits, he is said to have killed more than a hundred wolves with his bare hands. As the story goes, he chases the creature on horseback until it has no place to run, then calmly dismounts, seizes it by the muzzle and snaps its neck with a jerk."
"Sort of a frontier Paul Bunyan," laughed the other appreciatively.
"Exactly! Except that you are the first men I've met who claim to have seen him in person."
"Just as soon not have," grumbled Crippen.
Amusement glittered in the rancher's otherwise cold blue eye. "Dale considers wolfers a necessary evil at best."
"Filthy lot, as a rule," said the other and hesitated with a glance in the journalist's direction. "This ain't going to show up in print, is it? I heard of folks being throwed in jail for talking about other folks."
"I'll consider anything you say as strictly off the record," Fulwider assured him.
"If that means you ain't going to write down what I say, all right." He shifted his plug from one cheek to the other, an action his traveling partner of the past few days had learned to recognize as a signal of garrulity. "I never knowed a puncher who didn't earn some spare money wolfing. Done it myself, plenty of times. But professional wolfers are something different, and North is the worst of them. No one can touch him in kills, but the rest of us manage to snag our share of the bastards without becoming one of them."
"Nevertheless, there's a vein of truth in the most implausible myths," argued the journalist. "If what he did to that bully in the saloon is an indication of his performance under stress, I'd say he's just the man to hunt down your Black Jack."
This bit of reasoning was met with an icy silence. Meredith turned a face to his foreman from which all the good humor had drained.
"That's one of the things we discussed at the meeting just now," he said. "Black Jack's in business again. He struck the Harper ranch two nights running, and last night he got Old Abe on Newcastle property."
Crippen let fly with a remarkable string of curses. He had spoken of the steer called Old Abe aboard the train, an enormous longhorn used as lead animal by the present ranch manager's father, Sir William Meredith, on his first cattle drive from Texas fifteen years before. Though the beasts were generally held in contempt by men forced to spend much time with them, Fulwider had noted a grudging respect in the foreman's description of Abe's unerring sense of direction and unchallenged mastery of the herd.
"Sure it was Jack?" Crippen asked, when he had finally run out of oaths. His face was bright red.
"The line
rider got a shot at a white wolf lingering near the carcass. The only one like that around here is his mate, and they're always together." The Englishman paused. "The others are in favor of doubling the bounty."
His employee shook his head fiercely. "Don't much like that idea. Twelve hunnert dollars'd bring in too much scum."
"That's what I told the others. They agreed to wait and see what the six hundred dollar offer brings."
Nothing more was said on the subject, and when Meredith turned back to the journalist he was once again the genial cattle baron. "Well, I certainly hope you find your hero." He extended his hand.
Clearly this was a dismissal. In parting, Fulwider said, "Heroes need not be gunmen. I'm certain our readers would be just as eager to learn about big ranchers such as yourself."
"I would disappoint them. My father came to this territory when it was populated only by red Indians and herds of buffalo who were unimpressed by his knighthood. He carved out an empire larger than some European kingdoms with his .bare hands and a little help from Mr. Colt. I, however, was educated at Cambridge and moved here only ten years ago upon his death." He smiled complacently. "I am something of a carpetbagger, you see."
Fulwider's lungs were beginning to close up. He made a hasty end to the interview and took leave. He barely got to his room with his luggage when the terrible racking bean.
When it was done he sat down weakly on the edge of the bed and inspected his handkerchief. As yet there was no blood. Unstrapping his portmanteau, he excavated a quart bottle of gin from among his shirts, uncorked it and tipped it up to dissolve the phlegm in his throat. It worked admirably. His problem was that he didn't stop once it had accomplished its purpose.
The sun was past its peak when he awoke next day, spread-eagled on top of the covers and fully dressed. There was a dull throbbing behind his eyes that increased when he opened them, and the smell coming from behind the hotel seemed to have settled in his mouth in the form of a vile taste. The empty bottle thudded to the floor when he got up.
His bladder was swelled to bursting. Emptying it into a white enamel chamber pot discovered under the bed, he remembered seeing a saloon across from the hotel on his way in. With the aid of the dresser mirror he made himself as presentable as possible without shaving—his hands weren't to be trusted yet—lowered his hat carefully onto his fragile head and struck out for the hallway.
Rutted paths charitably referred to as streets described twisting passages among the buildings. He started across a plank thoughtfully provided for the more fastidious pedestrians, only to hold back when a lone horseman attired in a bulky coat came along at a weary walk, hoofs squishing in the six-inch-deep mud. When horse and rider had passed he resumed walking, then stopped again.
He blinked at the man's retreating back. His headache was blinding and the sun breaking through the cloud cover overhead was too bright for his gin-blurred eyes to make out anything beyond vague shadows. But there was no mistaking that stench.
Chapter Three
Fortified by two glasses of inferior whiskey and a shave at the barber shop, operated by a German who knew almost no words of English and doubled as the owner of the livery stable, the journalist felt closer to human as he re-entered the Assiniboin. He could think of only one reason why Asa North was in Rebellion—Meredith's bounty offer for Black Jack's skin.
The clerk looked fresh in a recently turned collar and beaver coat beginning to show wear at the elbows. His servile smile when greeting Fulwider was a welcome change from the condescending leer he had grown to expect from eastern concierges after observing his condition on the way out.
"Is Nelson Meredith still registered?" he asked.
"He checked out this morning, sir. Gone back to Newcastle. He only stays in town once or twice a month when the ranchers meet. Mr. Crippen left for the ranch last night."
"Has anyone else asked for him within the past hour?" A disturbed expression flashed across the hotel employee's features. "Yes, a rather vile person in a fur vest. He was quite fragrant. I told him the same thing I told you.,,
"What did he say?"
"He said it didn't make any difference. Do you know him?"
"No, but I'd like to. Did he mention where he was going?"
"He's registered." Thanatopsis spun the thick book lying open on the counter so that the guest could read the signatures. The name he was looking for was written in a clerkly hand next to a bold X and the date. "Room Fourteen. I thought it best to put at least a floor between him and the other guests."
The door stood open, allowing sunlight onto the rubber runner that answered for a carpet in the hallway. Wondering if the wolfer was asleep after his long ride, Fulwider crept on tiptoe along the wall and stepped inside, fist poised to rap on the jamb.
The window had been flung up and the room was full of early spring chill. The furniture was identical to that in his own quarters, including a brass bed with a thick, flower-print counterpane, unoccupied at present. The room was deserted. He was about to leave when something cold and rigid touched the bone behind his right ear. The dry air was split by a metallic snap.
"That there was the set trigger," whispered a voice at the same ear. "All's I got to do to make the other one go off is think about it. Maybe you'll want to take my mind off it by talking. Don't turn around!"
The warning lashed out like a serpent's tongue. As the journalist had started to turn, he glimpsed North, naked to the waist, standing behind the door. He froze at the command.
"What should I talk about?" The effects of his morning session with the bottle were gone, as if drained down the barrel of the rifle.
"You can start with why you was sneaking up on a man in his room."
"I was trying to be quiet. I thought you were sleeping."
"I was. Now I'm not."
"Your door was open."
"Don't like being closed in."
Fulwider introduced himself. He had raised his hands without realizing that he was doing so. "I'm a journalist. A newspaper writer. I have cards inside my coat."
"Take your word for it."
"I'd like very much to have a few words with you, Mr. North. I'm not armed." He suppressed a gasp as a crusty hand came up beneath his coat and groped about with a practiced, expert touch. When it was withdrawn:
"Where'd you hear my name?"
"In a saloon in Bismarck," he blurted, in his anxiety answering the question literally. "Last week. I'm certain you saw me."
"I see a lot of folks, more than I care to. What makes you special?"
"The fellow I was with helped you out of a close spot with the marshal. A tall old cowhand with a gray moustache."
"Turn around."
The journalist obeyed, and the rifle was lowered. Face to face he was surprised to see that he was two inches taller than the wolfer. Even allowing for the minimal advantage given him by his low heels over a man in his stocking feet, the difference was startling and a trifle disconcerting. He had expected more of a legend.
The man was not physically striking. His face was seamed and browned beyond what Fulwider judged to be its thirty years, so that the flesh clung to the bone the way a square of ancient carpet long past design embraces a floor, taking on the shape, color and texture of the boards beneath, but this quality was shared by hundreds of farmers and cattlemen between the Ohio River and the Barbary Coast. Hatless, he had a broad forehead divided by a low widow's peak the color of wet buckskin, darker than the rest of his hair, which was gathered into a sandy queue behind his neck. His eyes were a curious amber, the shade of properly aged brandy, but in spite of a disturbing note in their bland scrutiny they were easily wasted upon the unobservant. A v of coarse hair to match the widow's peak matted his broad torso between flat breasts.
Fulwider tried not to notice the animal smell he exuded even with his death-tainted garments hanging on the bedpost a yard away, but in all honesty this was his most notable attribute.
North filled his lungs in a slow draft and e
mptied them in a short whoosh through his nostrils. His gun, a rifle with a thirty-inch octagonal barrel and ornate scrollwork on the receiver, revolved slowly until its muzzle was almost touching the floor. The hammer was replaced with a metallic crunch. A firearms enthusiast, Fulwider identified it from its blue-green cast as a 38-55 Ballard No. 4, a formidable weapon.
"You'd stomped up them stairs like anyone else I wouldn't of even woke up," said the wolfer. "Folks that walk quiet bother me." He fell silent. After a moment the journalist realized that he was expected to speak.
"As I said, I'm a journalist," he began haltingly. "I'm on assignment from the New York World to interview and write about our modern frontiersmen. From what I have heard about you, I would say you're the first one I've met who is worth the ink and paper."
"What'd you hear?"
He repeated the wolf-strangling story Meredith had told him. North grunted.
"That one's been following me for years. Wolves don't wrestle. They run when you get near them. If there's room."
"And if there isn't?"
"I kill them. With this." He raised and lowered the Ballard.
"I see." The answer disappointed Fulwider. He went on to tell him what he had acquired from Dale Crippen on the subject of North.
"That what folks like to read about these days?" he asked. "Don't sound like it'd hardly fill up a page."
"That is why I wish to interview you."
"Don't expect me to read it. I don't read nor write. Never seen the percentage."
"That won't be necessary." The journalist felt his confidence returning. If he had learned one fact in his career it was that everyone wanted to be famous. "When can we start?"
"Start what?" North leaned the rifle against the wall beside the bed.
"Why, the interview. I'll have to ask you some questions."
"How long does that take?"
The Wolfer Page 2
