The Range Wolf

by Andrew J. Fenady

“A few months,” I said. “We were on our way to San Francisco to be married; but now, after what happened to . . . Mr. Brewster, we may postpone . . .”

  “Ah, yes. Miss Brewster is in mourning. However, I wouldn’t advise waiting too long. Anything can happen.”

  “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Riker,” Flaxen said flatly.

  “Pity this isn’t a sailing ship,” Riker lit a cigar. “Do you mind if I enjoy a cigar, Miss Brewster?”

  “Please do.”

  “The captain could perform a marriage ceremony,” Riker inhaled.

  “And they could spend their honeymoon on the trail,” Dr. Picard added. “Among these blissful surroundings.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Riker?” Flaxen asked.

  This time it was Riker who hesitated momentarily as if stiffened by the unexpected question.

  “No.”

  But he quickly recovered and even smiled.

  “But then, I’ve not been as fortunate as Mr. Guthrie . . . in some ways.”

  The rest of the evening’s conversation amounted to chitchat and, at times, forced pleasantries, until we rose from the table.

  “Do you mind, Miss Brewster, if I offer just a little more advice?”

  “Please do.”

  “I would advise that you find some, shall we say, ‘duds’ more fitting for the trail. These . . . men, aren’t used to viewing such . . . feminine finery.”

  “I only dressed for this special occasion.”

  “Very good. And I suppose, like Mr. Guthrie, you are used to having things done for you. Well, I think doing a few things for yourself will hardly dislocate any joints. It seems to have done Mr. Guthrie some good.”

  “I have done things for myself and will continue to do so, and try not to make myself a . . . burden, until we leave your . . . hospitality.”

  “And I suggest you keep your door locked when you are alone, Miss Brewster, as a precautionary measure. Mr. Guthrie will accompany you whenever necessary.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that, Mr. Riker,” I nodded, “and try not to have it interfere with my duties.”

  Just a few jottings, by lantern light, in my journal later that night.

  I had been unprepared and pleasantly surprised by Wolf Riker’s appearance and mostly gracious attitude at supper. He received us more like a southern gentleman of Virginia than a truculent brute, relentlessly driving men and beasts through unforgiving terrain with a contentious crew. He was for the most part civil, and even courteous. Not once did he refer to me as Guth.

  Dr. Picard was anything but the trembling, inebriated wreck I first met on the drive. Now, he was the picture of sobriety with a ready riposte to Riker’s occasional innuendo.

  And Flaxen, Flaxen Brewster. I could not have been prouder of her, of her mien and manner, if she actually had been my fiancée.

  But Wolf Riker was right about one thing. She had to be heedful about her appearance from here on.

  I did not appreciate the way that Cookie eyed her more often than not during the course of the evening. He could barely constrain the lascivious look in his wanton eyes.

  At the doorstep of her wagon I could not resist a concluding comment.

  “Flaxen, you were magnificent this evening.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Guthrie.”

  “Don’t you think, since we are engaged pro forma, we should call each other by our first names?”

  “Of course I do,” she smiled, “when other people are around.”

  “You never can tell,” I whispered, “when other people are listening—or watching.”

  “In that case,” she also whispered, “a good night kiss, Christopher.”

  She leaned forward, close, but not quite close enough. From a distance, and in the dark, it did seem like a kiss.

  But not to me.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The next morning Cookie’s demeanor was even more belligerent toward all the drovers, and even more so toward me. Complaints were followed by curses, then by threats, all mumbled and scrambled so there was nothing specific to reply to. But I gathered it all had something to do with a man of his rank reduced to serving a drunk, a fizzy female, and a stringy ass lackey, who didn’t know dishwater from duck soup.

  He kept slamming food into plates and shoving the plates across the serving table, almost defying each drover to fetter the plate before it flew onto the ground.

  After the drovers were fed I was preparing to take a tray to Flaxen when, unlike last night, Wolf Riker once more became the Range Wolf.

  In the distance, Smoke, with something in his hand, extended it to Bucephalus’ mouth, and with his other hand patted the horse on its forehead. Buchephalus’ head pumped twice up and down, and shuddered; he nickered, and his massive body bolted a step backward.

  From out of nowhere Wolf Riker appeared and with whirlwind speed spun Smoke around and smashed his fist into the black man’s face with an impact that would have felled and ox.

  Smoke did not fall. He staggered, and dropped to one knee.

  For an instant it seemed that Wolf Riker would strike the stunned man again. Instead, he stood legs apart and pointed his doubled fist toward Smoke, then motioned and pointed toward Bucephalus.

  “Don’t you ever touch that animal again, much less try to feed him. No one does that but me. Understand?”

  “I understand. And I was wrong, Mr. Riker.”

  Riker started to turn away but stopped as Smoke’s voice went on.

  “But don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, or I swear to God in heaven . . .”

  When Riker did turn, Karl Simpson was standing in front of Smoke with his hands on Smoke’s shoulders, silently restraining the black man from doing, or even saying, anything more.

  Riker stood another moment, like a human Colossus, then turned not fast, not slow, and walked away past Pepper, who had an insouciant look on his bewhiskered face.

  Alan Reese came to Simpson’s side, and the two of them led Smoke in the opposite direction.

  I thought to myself that if any of the other men, with the possible exception of Karl Simpson, were hit that hard, he would be unconscious for a long, long time, if he survived at all.

  I also promised myself that under no circumstance would I go anywhere near a horse called Bucephalus.

  And I was grateful that Flaxen Brewster had been spared the sight of such brutality.

  But as I had noted before, it was a long way to Kansas, and it seemed inevitable that something similar or, more than likely, even worse, would occur, unless she and I could somehow bow out of Wolf Riker’s so-called expedition. And I also noted that for some time I had begun to think in terms of “we,” rather than “me.” But I said to myself, “we” only until the two of us were out of, and away from, the present circumstance. That’s what I said to myself, however, not altogether convincingly.

  And in accordance with Wolf Riker’s suggestion, Flaxen did find from her suitcase more appropriate “duds” for the trail. To my surprise, Dr. Picard took the reins of his wagon, and Flaxen, from time to time, sat next to him and vacated the narrower confines inside the conveyance.

  As often as possible I vacated the seat next to the odiferous Eustice Munger and saddled Tobacco whose fragrance was much more pleasing.

  I did my best to ride alongside Dr. Picard and Flaxen as much as possible, but it was not nearly as much as I would have liked.

  At one point Riker, straddling Bucephalus, rode up next to the three of us, tipped his black hat with the hint of a smile.

  “It’s good to see you up and around enjoying the good clean Texas air, Miss Brewster, and those duds are as becoming, or even more so, than your gown.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Riker,” she replied with more than a hint of a smile.

  “I hope, Mr. Guthrie, later tonight you’ll find some time for us to continue with a certain part of your journal.”

  “I certainly will, Mr. Riker.”

  “Good, I . . . goddamn it, Latimer!” he hollered
. “Don’t ride that animal so close to those horns. I don’t want to lose a good horse because you’re asleep in the saddle.”

  And he galloped off toward Latimer and the herd.

  Wolf Riker was still the Range Wolf, and not for one minute would he forget his mission, or neglect his obsession in driving the cattle north through Texas, the Indian Territory, the Oklahoma Strip, and into Kansas. After baiting Latimer, I saw him ride toward the rear to admonish Leach because the drag was falling back too far.

  It caught up fast.

  And during the noon meal I overheard Leach, Latimer, French Frank, and a couple of others grumbling over their beef and beans and what passed for coffee.

  But for once Cookie was not grumbling. Quite the opposite. He was grinning as he poked a dirty finger in my face.

  “You and your kind ain’t the only ones to get invited by Riker,” Cookie piped. “He’s asked me to come over after supper tonight. What do ya’ think of that, Mr. Pansy Pants?”

  “I think that’s very egalitarian, Mr. Munger.”

  “Damn right,” Cookie smirked.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  That evening the two of us, Flaxen and I, supped out in the open, but apart from the others. And after, we sat under a star studded sky, silent, but not for long.

  She looked at the diamond ring on her finger as it sparkled in the moonlight.

  “Do you believe in fate?”

  “Call it fate, destiny, chance, kismet.” I looked upward. “The stars. Divinity. The Bard put it his way, ‘There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.’ It’s hard to look up there and not believe in something. What makes you ask?”

  “The way we met. Being on the same stagecoach. Just the two of us surviving. Dr. Picard. This ring. It all must add up to something.”

  “Survival. If we’re not devoured by wolves. One wolf in particular.”

  “Would you say that he is evil?”

  “I’d say that his scale tips in that direction. His favorite quote is ‘better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.’”

  “And you? Do you have a favorite quote?”

  “Right now I’d have to say, ‘Les choses ne sont pas toujours ce qu’elles paraissent.’”

  “Translation please.”

  “‘Things aren’t always what they seem.’”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “That great French poet Christopher Le Guthrie.”

  As we both laughed we saw Cookie walk out of Wolf Riker’s wagon, rather unsteadily, and move toward the kitchen carriage.

  “What do you think of our chances?” she asked.

  “Better than the cattle.”

  Cookie weaved his way back toward Riker’s wagon with a fistful of money, money that I knew damn well was mine.

  “Probably”—I nodded toward Mr. Munger—“even better than his, tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, let’s not talk about him.”

  “All right, then tell me about yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to know. How is it that you were on your way west? Were you in the war?”

  “I’d have to answer your second question first. But then will you tell me more about yourself?”

  “Yes. Later. But please, go ahead.”

  “All right.”

  Without benefit of too much embellishment I capsulized my background with my father, Harvard, the law firm of Guthrie, Talbot and Flexner, my enlistment and service with the War Department’s Bureau of Military Justice, my father’s death and my mother’s diamond ring, my literary achievements, and critical contributions to Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune.

  “Christopher Guthrie,” she nodded, “you know, now that you’ve refreshed my memory, I have heard of you. I believe I even read one of your novels . . . The Conquering . . . something or other.”

  “The Conquering Coward, but don’t hold that against me.”

  “But why did you leave Greeley’s newspaper and New York?”

  At this point I smiled and went into a little more detail.

  “Well, you see Flaxen, it was like this: Horace Greeley, as you may or may not know, is one hell of a newspaperman, self-made, self-educated son of a poor New Hampshire family, who set out for New York and new horizons, which he found at the bottom of the newspaper game and from which he worked himself up to publisher of one of the two most powerful papers in the city. Greeley looks like a scarecrow, with a circular face and circular spectacles, giving him an owl-like countenance; but he is politically wiser than any wise old owl. The night before, I had written a review of a play that starred an actress named Ann Treadwell, and the next morning I was summoned into the office of lord and master Horace Greeley. I knew what to expect so I went prepared.

  “‘Good morning, Mr. Greeley.’

  “‘Mr. Guthrie,’ Greeley did not rise from his desk or offer his hand. ‘This is Mr. Jamison Damask.’

  “Mr. Damask also failed to rise from his chair or offer his hand, but did nod toward the beautiful lady sitting next to him.

  “‘This is my fiancée, Miss Treadwell.’

  “‘Ah, yes,’ I responded. ‘The actress.’

  “‘Not according to your review,’ Miss Treadwell pronounced in her studied stage voice, which was much too studied.

  “‘Most of the reviews,’ I noted.

  “‘But yours,’ Damask replied, ‘was particularly scathing.’

  “‘Incisive,’ I corrected.

  “‘Invective,’ Damask retorted.

  “‘And,’ Miss Treadwell added, ‘how would you like to have that smirk slapped off your face?’

  “‘It’s been tried.’

  “‘Only by women?’ Damask rose to his full height.’

  “‘Guthrie,’ Greeley growled, ‘I think . . .’

  “‘I think Mr. Damask was about to challenge me to a duel.’

  “‘Would you accept?’ Damask somehow grew even taller.

  “‘No.’

  “‘Why not? I think a duel between you and I would be . . . interesting.’

  “‘May I choose the weapon?’

  “‘Of course.’

  “‘Then I choose grammar . . . and between you and me, Mr. Damask, you’ve already lost.’

  “Jameson Damask took a step toward me.

  “‘Just a moment, sir,’ I smiled.

  “‘Will you write an apology?’ he said.

  “‘Better than that. Mr. Greeley can write it, if he chooses.’ I removed a folded paper from my pocket. ‘My resignation from the Tribune, gentlemen . . . and Miss Treadwell. I do hope that is satisfactory to all.’ And I placed the paper on Greeley’s desk.

  “‘Well, in that case,’ Damask grunted, ‘I believe that concludes our business here. Come, my dear.’

  “They both left with Miss Treadwell making a center door fancy stage exit.

  “Then Greeley rose and picked up the resignation paper.

  “‘Chris, this wasn’t necessary, you can . . .’

  “‘No, I can’t, Horace. I know Jameson Damask is a big business man who buys a lot of advertising space in your paper. I also know that you’re going to run for president against U.S. Grant and Damask is a big party boss whose endorsement can get you the nomination.’

  “‘Well . . .’

  “There’s no well to it. Besides, I’m going to take your advice.’

  “‘What advice?’

  “‘You’ve been saying it for months—‘go west, young man.’

  “‘Oh, that,’ he smiled.

  “‘Yes, that. But I’m also going to write a book, about the glorious prospects the west has to offer: adventure, opportunity, riches, romance. When I’ve finished you can serialize it in the Tribune. Mr. Damask should have cooled off by then.’

  “‘Not a bad idea,’ Greeley grinned, and this time he did offer his hand.

  “We shook, and I walked to the door but turned back.

  “‘One mor
e thing you ought to know, Horace.’

  “‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  “‘I’m going to vote for Ulysses Simpson Grant.’

  “And that, my dear Flaxen, is how I happened to come west and meet a certain young lady.”

  “And you, my dear Christopher Guthrie,” she smiled, “are quite a raconteur.”

  “Now tell me your story.”

  “I said ‘later’ and it’s getting quite late.”

  “You’re right. And I have a date.”

  “With whom?”

  “Wolf Riker. He asked me to stop by and listen to his story. But first I’ll walk you ‘home.’”

  I did.

  And this time she did lean forward, quite close enough, so it more than seemed like a kiss.

  CHAPTER XXX

  On my way from what was now Flaxen’s wagon, under which Dr. Picard now slept, walking toward Wolf Riker’s wagon I heard voices whispering through the night, voices emanating from silhouettes sitting in a semi-circle smoking pipes and cigarettes.

  The voices, as best as I could determine, belonged to Leach, French Frank, Smoke, Dogbreath, and probably Latimer.

  “He’s gone crazy or skin close to it.”

  “Coulda killed Smoke, the way he hit him.”

  “I’m sick of eatin’ drag dust.”

  “We’ll soon be deep into Indian country.”

  “Maybe we already are.”

  “For what? A payday we’ll never live to see.”

  “Drinkin’ swill that passes for coffee.”

  “There’s gotta be border raiders ahead.”

  “Once we cross the Texas border we’ll never get back.”

  “I say we make a break and head home.”

  “What home?”

  “Anything’s better than this.”

  “Gettysburg wasn’t.”

  “The war’s over.”

  “This one ain’t.”

  “I say we grab what supplies we can and . . .”

  I cleared my throat louder than necessary, much louder.

  “Good evening gentlemen,” I remarked.

  “How long you been standin’ there?” French Frank bristled.

  “Not standing. Just passing by.”

  “Where to?” Dogbreath sucked on his corncob.