The Range Wolf

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “But in the battle Pepper was wounded in the leg. And that’s why he still limps.”

  I turned to look at Riker and make a comment, but Wolf Riker was looking at something else.

  In the distance three mounted Indians had cut out a half dozen steers and were doing their best to herd the abducted beeves as far away as they could get.

  Riker and Bucephalus bolted ahead as if primed from a cannon.

  I don’t know why, but I followed. Maybe it was because I instinctively reasoned that two riders would be twice as discouraging to the Indians as only one. Maybe it was because I didn’t think at all. But follow I did, although at not nearly the same pace. Or nearly with the same effect.

  Truthfully, I had no effect at all, nor did Wolf Riker expect, or need, any.

  Without slackening his pace Riker started to pull his Henry out of its boot, but halfway, changed his mind. He decided to go with his handgun.

  One of the fleeing Indians with a rifle fired his single shot Spencer. It was the last shot he’d ever fire. The Indian missed. Riker’s Remington handgun didn’t.

  The Indian tumbled to the ground and Riker and Bucephalus trampled over him and kept shooting and riding through the scattered beeves and after the two remaining red men who did their best to fire their ancient weapons and escape.

  Their best wasn’t good enough.

  Riker’s fourth shot shattered the lagging Indian’s spine, his fifth and sixth shots brought down number three. All three dead.

  We had been too far away from the main herd to be stampeded by the exchange of gunfire, which must have sounded like little more than “pop-pops” in the distance, but close enough to be heard by the drovers riding point.

  By the time Riker reined in, patting Bucephalus, and I rode up next to him, Chandler, Smoke, and Reese were galloping toward us with their guns drawn. Since all three Indians were on the ground deceased, it was obvious that the drovers might as well holster their firearms. And they did.

  Riker didn’t waste any words in his instructions.

  “Get some more help. Gather up the steers and bury the red bastards. Smoke . . .”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Comanche?”

  “Comanch’.”

  “Poor artillery . . . and poor shots.”

  Then Riker turned to me.

  “Come on, Guth; let’s get back.”

  He started to ride and I followed.

  After we’d gone a ways, I felt it suitable to make an observation.

  “You didn’t handle these Indians like you did Moondog, Mr. Riker.”

  “I told you there was a time to negotiate. This was not such a time. In the first place, these Indians weren’t inclined to talk things over. They started shooting.”

  “And in the second place?”

  “I don’t need a second place.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  During the rest of the day and into dark, during supper, the conversation mostly centered around what happened between Riker and the three expired Indians.

  Chandler, the trail boss, was particularly vocal and descriptive of Riker’s mettle and marksmanship, even though he hadn’t witnessed the actual encounter. The results spoke for themselves. Particularly when the drive passed the site of the three fresh mounds of earth and rock that marked the outcome.

  While some of the “turncoats,” as Riker had referred to them, undoubtedly still harbored thoughts of defying or defecting, the prospect of going up against Wolf Riker must have been somewhat dampened—at least temporarily.

  As for Riker himself, it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. His only overt reaction to the incident was the fact that he was seen emptying the shells and re-loading his Remington handgun. Otherwise, it was just another day on the drive to Kansas.

  I did see him paying a little more attention to his mount, patting, currying, feeding, and whispering to Bucephalus.

  There was one other thing.

  Pepper made it his business to come up to me when I was alone.

  “The boss says you showed some grit when you was with him earlier today.”

  “I don’t call it grit, just watching him dispatch those three red rustlers—not by any stretch.”

  “The point is—you didn’t ride in the other direction,” Pepper said, and limped away.

  It was sometime later that night that Riker did bring up the subject.

  Alan Reese, Dr. Picard, and I were near the campfire when Riker walked up with his cigar. He spoke to Reese, but so all of us could hear. There was more than a touch of irony in his voice and attitude.

  “Mr. Reese, I understand that after burying those Comanches, you took the time to say a prayer over their graves.”

  “If you’re concerned about the time it took, I’ll make it up to you, Mr. Riker.”

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “Then, what, sir?”

  “You think those savages believe in an afterlife?”

  “I’ve heard that they do.”

  “The happy hunting ground?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where they can steal cattle, horses, and wives?”

  “Maybe where they don’t have to.”

  “I see. Well, so long as it’s not my cattle . . . you think your prayers can help them get there?”

  “I don’t know, but . . . it’s possible.”

  “However, you and they don’t believe in the same God.”

  “Maybe there’s only one God . . . with many faces.”

  “I don’t remember reading that in that Bible you have from the man they killed sometime back.”

  “There are many interpretations of that Bible, Mr. Riker.”

  “There are also many fools who interpret it. Good night, gentlemen.”

  When Riker had walked too far to hear, Dr. Picard looked after him, shook his head, and sighed.

  “It was easier to listen to that man when I was drinking. But drunk or sober, I can’t fathom what the hell obsesses him. At times he seems to be Lucifer incarnate.”

  “That,” I said, “may not be so far from wrong, and in accordance with his favorite quotation—‘better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.’”

  “Yes,” Reese added, “but at one time Lucifer was an angel. Milton’s quotation goes on. ‘Hurled into hell, he was unbeaten. He led a lost cause and was not afraid of God’s thunderbolts. A third of God’s angels he took with him.’”

  “Well, here’s one angel,” Picard said, “he’s not going to take with him. Not after this drive, no matter what happens. I think he’s crazy, don’t you, Mr. Reese?”

  “There’s another quotation from another book, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’”

  “What is this? Some kind of Bible session?”

  George Leach smirked and took a step closer.

  “I heard what the three of you and Riker were talking about.”

  “I imagine you did,” Picard smiled. “You’re quite adept at that sort of thing, Mr. Leach.”

  “And other things, too.”

  “The sort of things that land you in prison.”

  “There’s no law against listening.”

  “Or eavesdropping?”

  “Not if it means staying alive, and that’s what I intend to do—and so do some of the rest of us.”

  “There are three dead Indians buried back there who had the misfortune of coming up against Wolf Riker,” I said.

  “Maybe so,” Leach grunted. “But I ain’t no Indian.”

  “Nor a grammarian,” I noted.

  “How’s that?”

  “Not important, Mr. Leach.”

  With that, Mr. Leach smirked again, and left the three of us.

  On the way to my quarters I saw something I didn’t like. Flaxen and Cookie near the chuck wagon. And I particularly didn’t like the look on Cookie’s dirty face, and by the tone of my voice, had no qualms about expressing my point of view.

  “What are you doing o
ut here, Flaxen?”

  “Why . . . just returning the supper plate and . . .”

  “Oh, hello Guth,” Cookie grinned, “the Missy and me was just visitin’ and talkin’ about . . .”

  “Whatever it was, the conversation and the visit are finished. Come along, Flaxen.”

  I took hold of her arm more firmly than necessary and led her away.

  “Well, well,” Cookie cackled, “if that don’t beat all.”

  He went on cackling and mumbling but by then we were far enough away that we didn’t have to listen.

  “Christopher,” Flaxen said, “do you expect me to stay in that wagon all the day and night?”

  “No, I don’t, but stay away from that skunk. He’s rotten to the bone and . . . well, just stay away from him. Will you promise me that?”

  “Any other instructions, master?” She smiled.

  I knew that she was being coquettish, but I didn’t mind a bit . . . so long as she kept her distance from that unsavory son of a bitch. And the truth was, the less distance between her and me the better I liked it.

  Whether it was her hand that first reached out, or mine, I wasn’t quite sure, but by then we were walking hand in hand. And I do believe that, for both of us, it felt quite normative.

  “By the way, speaking of your getting out, earlier today Wolf Riker said he’d ask Pepper to pick out a horse for you to ride, that is, if you can ride. Of course, I told him you could. You can? Can’t you?”

  “You’d be surprised.” She went on in her coquettish fashion.

  “Miss Brewster, nothing you can do would surprise me.”

  “That could be taken several ways.”

  “It was meant to be taken several ways.”

  “I don’t know whether to be flattered, or flustered.”

  “I think you do,” I smiled my most cavalier smile.

  “Flattered it is then . . . and Christopher . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Seriously, I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, I . . .”

  “Say no more, fair maiden. ’Tis no more than any gallant knight would do for a beautiful damsel in distress.”

  “I was in distress, Christopher, in more ways than one. Sometime I’ll have to tell you about it, about my father and . . .”

  “Don’t tell me a damn thing. There’s nothing more intriguing than a mysterious woman, besides, as for being in distress—right now, I’d say that describes both of us.”

  “You’re not,” she smiled, “going to say ‘it’s a long way to Kansas,’ are you?”

  “You’ve already said it. And since we’ve arrived at your boudoir, I’ll just say, in parting, good night.”

  “None of that ‘sweet sorrow’ stuff?”

  “Not tonight, Juliet.”

  “Then good night, Señor Montague.”

  She let go of my hand, but her face leaned forward, then slightly upward.

  There was only one thing to do—and I did it.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  Pepper picked out an eight-year-old mare and brought it to Flaxen while I was there.

  “I’m mighty particular about who rides her, and from now on it’ll be nobody but you, that is if the two of you take to each other. Call her Bluebell on account of her color. She is smooth as velvet and can go the distance. Saddled and ready to set out . . . if you are.”

  “I am.” Flaxen nodded.

  “Here, give her this lump of sugar and some sweet talk, then step up.”

  A short time later we were galloping side-by-side, Flaxen and Bluebell, Tobacco and I, and it wasn’t that easy for the male contingent to keep up with the female set. But it was easy to see that the two of them had “taken to each other.”

  On the way back to the drive when we were no longer galloping, I had the opportunity to inquire.

  “Where did you learn to ride like that?”

  “You ought to see me bareback.”

  “I’d like to,” I smiled, “but you haven’t answered the question.”

  “A fellow I know once said ‘there’s nothing more intriguing than a mysterious woman.’”

  “About some things, not horses.”

  “This is no ordinary horse, this is Bluebell.”

  “And you, Miss Flaxen Brewster, are no ordinary woman.”

  “You know, Christopher, riding out here, just the two of us, it’s hard to believe what’s happening to us is real.”

  “It won’t be hard to believe when we get back to a wolf named Riker, who’s taking seven thousand beeves to slaughter—and maybe us with them.”

  And it wasn’t long after we did get back that reality once again became amply evident.

  “Guth, did you use, or take, or see one of my Messermeister blades? The six-incher?”

  The pride of Cookie’s collection of cutlery was a set of six kitchen knives imported from Germany, with blades of four, six, eight, ten, and twelve inches.

  I answered that I had not.

  This prompted an outburst of the loudest, foulest, most vile curses I had ever heard, so filthy that even the hardened drovers looked at each other in disgust.

  And with each string of epithets, Cookie’s inflection became louder and more repugnant as the veins in his filthy throat seemed about to burst.

  Until all of us, including Cookie, heard the sound of Wolf Riker’s voice.

  “Shut up, Cookie! Right now, shut your damn mouth!”

  Silence.

  But Cookie was still shaking as Riker broke the silence.

  “What the hell is going on? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened. One of these bastards stole my six-inch Messermeister blade. Sharp enough to cut through stone, and when I find out him who done it, I’ll . . .”

  “You’ll do nothing. I do the doing around here. And if that blade isn’t returned, all of you’ll be the sorrier for it.”

  Riker suddenly backhanded Latimer and knocked him to the ground in a quivering heap.

  The poor man was still shaking as he managed to stutter and speak.

  “I . . . did . . . didn’t take it . . . I . . . swear . . .”

  “I didn’t say you did. But that’s just a sample if I find out who did take it before it’s returned. You just happened to be standing closest.”

  Once again a shroud of silence fell over all those present.

  And at first nobody moved.

  Chandler, Leach, Smoke, Simpson, French Frank, Dogbreath, Reese, Drago, Morales One, Morales Two, Dr. Picard, and all the rest. Then Reese and Simpson stepped out, bent over Latimer and lifted him to his feet. Latimer, still in a daze, instinctively rubbed at his tufted face as the two men helped him move away.

  “All of you,” Riker commanded, “finish up here and get back to the herd.”

  Then it was Wolf Riker, whose hand went to his own face, stroked at the scar on his temple and turned, walking in the opposite direction where, once again Pepper was waiting.

  As we collected plates and cups Cookie continued mumbling curses until both Reese and Simpson came back.

  “Mr. Guthrie,” Reese asked, “would you give me a cup of coffee for Mr. Latimer?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I don’t know who took that knife,” Karl Simpson said. “But if he wants to cut stone, he might try it out on Riker’s heart.”

  Reese glanced at Cookie, then put a restraining hand on Simpson’s arm as if to warn him against further comment.

  It was an expedient gesture on Reese’s part. I was certain that Eustice Munger still considered himself the “eyes and ears” of the drive and in order to curry Riker’s favor would eagerly report and exaggerate any insubordinate remark made by anybody on the drive.

  After Reese and Simpson left, Cookie squinted and started to reach out to tap my arm, but I managed to move just far enough to avoid his touch.

  “Guth,” he said, “you got any suspicion?”

  “About what?”

  “Not what. Who.”

 
“Who what?” I gibed.

  “You know—who lifted my blade.”

  “No, I don’t, Mr. Munger, but if I were you I’d keep a close watch on the rest of those blades.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing much, except he, or they, might want to add to the collection.”

  “You all think you’re pretty smart ’cause you’re educated, don’t you? You and Picard and that Missy . . .”

  “I also wouldn’t say another word, particularly about Miss Brewster.”

  “I seen you and her ridin’ off to some place where you . . .”

  “Cookie.” It was Pepper’s voice. “Fix up a plate I can take to the boss.”

  “Right away,” Cookie nodded and began to ‘fix up a plate.’

  “How is Mr. Riker?” I asked Pepper.

  “‘Livin’ lightin’,” he answered.

  But that was the first time I’d ever heard Pepper volunteer to take anything to Wolf Riker.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Part of what happened next, happened while I wasn’t there.

  I have a feeling that that will be more and more the case before this journal is finished—if it ever is finished.

  From time to time I would recall Wolf Riker’s prediction concerning me—‘I’ll be interested in the change . . . There will be a change, there has to be . . .’

  And up to that time I had changed some. I had begun to carry a weapon. I had become more and more protective of Flaxen. And I had tolerated less and less abuse from that misanthrope called Cookie.

  But before the end of that particular day there was an even more evident and enduring change.

  From first light the sky had hung heavy and humid, barely shielding the curling clouds that threatened to explode with the wet fury of a Texas downpour.

  But the storm didn’t come—at least not that storm.

  We were, all of us, soaked with the sweat of our own clothes. Perspiration dripping into our eyes and lips as the drive pressed north toward the Red River. And we were getting closer, as evidenced by the narrow forks of its confluent streams, streams that were no more than knee deep, unlike the Red River, itself, which in rainfall could flood its banks and submerge the shoulders of a tall man on horseback.