The Range Wolf

by Andrew J. Fenady

  And it seemed to me that the rest of the drovers took a certain satisfaction in Cookie’s comeuppance.

  Pepper made it his business to repeat Riker’s warning to me regarding Cookie’s cunning and artifice. His warning was unnecessary, but appreciated. Pepper also made mention of something else that somewhat surprised me.

  “The boss said that the two of you had another interestin’ session together.”

  I nodded.

  “Quite interesting . . . and I’m sorry, truly sorry, about what happened to your niece, Elizabeth.”

  It was his turn to nod.

  And I did not allow the opportunity to pass without inquiring.

  “If things had turned out differently, and she had to choose, what do you think she would have chosen to do? Stay with Wolf? Leave with Dirk? Or leave with neither of them?”

  I knew it was presumptive of me to ask, and for a moment I thought it a mistake, but Pepper did not take umbrage.

  “I don’t know. And with her last breath, I don’t think . . . she knew either.”

  “But you decided to stay with Wolf Riker. May I ask why?”

  “Maybe . . . I’m not sure of the answer to that either, but maybe because, in spite of his winning the toss of the coin, he needed me more than his brother did. Beside that scar on his head, the hurt went deeper . . . and then, too, Elizabeth was buried on that ranch.”

  “But they both left the Double R during the war.”

  “One went with the North, the other with the South.”

  “And you stayed with the Double R.”

  “Somebody had to.”

  “So that somebody just turned out to be you.”

  “Bad hoof and all,” he shrugged.

  With that, Pepper turned and walked away . . . bad hoof and all.

  “Mr. Guthrie.”

  There was a blue pattern of smoke traveling from Dr. Picard’s pipe as he approached.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any. About what?”

  “Cookie’s knife and your arm. I know that Doctor Wolf Riker worked on it. How’s it doing?”

  “The knife or the arm?” I smiled.

  “Both.”

  “The knife is safely tucked away . . .”

  “And the arm? Would you like me to change the bandage?”

  “Threw the bandage away this morning after changing my shirt, which suffered the real damage.”

  “Then let me see you hands.”

  “My what?”

  “Your hands. Let’s have a look at both of them.”

  I put forth both my hands, palms up.

  “Turn them over.”

  I did.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-huh, what?”

  He rubbed the knuckles of both hands.

  “Bruised, but not broken. That’s more than I can say about Cookie’s nose . . . and his jaw’s not in too good a shape. It’ll hurt to eat for a few more days.”

  “Pity.”

  “Yes, isn’t it. It seems I’ve had a steady stream of patients on this drive.”

  “I’d say you’ve done very well so far, Doctor, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s a long way to Kansas.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” He chuckled and walked away.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  Flaxen had seen if not heard the conversation between Picard and me.

  “Kansas,” I said. “If we ever get there.”

  “I don’t quite understand, but if I ever do get to Kansas it’ll be thanks to you.”

  “Then save your thanks until we get there . . . and, then and there, I’ll collect . . . the ‘thanks,’ I mean.”

  “There’s something else you have to collect.”

  “There is?”

  She held out her hand.

  “The ring,” she said.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Christopher,” she smiled, “how can you cross a bridge before you get to it?”

  “Come to think of it, you’re right.”

  “But there is one bridge we’ve already crossed that you asked me about . . . my father . . .”

  “Please. You owe me no explanation.”

  “I owe you everything. You and Dr. Picard. He was a character out of Dumas, my father, I mean. Strange, persuasive, debonair. He used to say that he was half Robin Hood—that is, he stole only from the rich. Of course, that was no excuse . . . for him . . . or me.”

  “Flaxen . . .”

  “No. Let me finish. Reginald Brewster was once a professional magician. With soft, delicate hands. At first I didn’t realized that he was using me as well as those hands to pick other people’s pockets.”

  “You were quite a diversion.”

  “And then I was always afraid he’d be caught if I weren’t around. He had a serious heart condition. The doctors didn’t give him much longer to live and he wanted to leave me with . . .”

  “Flaxen. I’ll listen to no more. Not now or ever. Nothing about the past. We met on this drive. Forget about the past.”

  “I’ll try, but will you answer just one question?”

  I nodded.

  “If you didn’t have to leave Baton Rouge the next day, would you have testified against us?”

  “You’re asking a different man. I can’t be held accountable for the values of Christopher Guthrie at that time. But I can speak now as the man on this drive . . . and the answer is no.”

  I took her in my arms.

  CHAPTER XLII

  But after those couple of days when things on the drive were neither too good, nor too bad—mostly middling—as we approached the Red River, dark clouds appeared in more ways than one—and things changed.

  Bleak nebulae hung heavy close above, and the sky rumbled with warnings of what was to come.

  Rain.

  And rain meant a swollen river and a more hazardous, if not impossible, crossing—at least until the waters receded, which could take days. Days when anything could happen. Days that Wolf Riker had no intention of waiting.

  Chandler rode back from beyond point with Smoke by his side, but it was Chandler who hollered within hollering distance.

  “Red River! Red River ahead!”

  It was the same Red River that Flaxen and I had crossed by stagecoach—but not the same. That was many miles to the south, from Louisiana into Texas, where the Red flows from north to south. Out here the Red moved west to east before turning south.

  But it was the same Red River that the Austins had crossed, Moses and his son Stephen, and then so many others who were not born in Texas, but who gave birth to what would become the twenty-eighth state of the United States of America.

  The others, men like Sam Houston, Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, William Travis, Sam Maverick, Henry Kinney, Gail Borden, Robert Hancock Hunter, Ben McCulloch, David Burnet—pioneers, soldiers, newspapermen, physicians, speculators, statesmen—were all born somewhere else, but all died Texans.

  For Texas.

  But there were also Wolf and Dirk Riker, brothers who had been divided between their loyalty to Texas and to the United States of America.

  Both brothers still alive, and whose fate had yet to be determined.

  In many ways the Red River was their Rubicon.

  It was sometime after the noon meal when Chandler and Smoke rode back after sighting the Red. Close to what the drovers thought would be supper and a good night’s rest before starting the crossing the next morning.

  But Wolf Riker had other plans and he made the announcement in no uncertain terms.

  An announcement that nearly fired off an open revolt.

  “We’re crossing today.”

  The men looked at each other in stunned disbelief.

  Leach, Smoke, Reese, Dogbreath, Latimer, Simpson, French Frank, Drago, Cookie, Morales One, Morales Two, Dr. Picard, Chandler, all the rest. All except Pepper whose stolid expression nev
er changed.

  “That’ll take all night,” one of the drovers hollered.

  “It might,” Riker answered. “But it might not if we drive ’em hard enough.”

  “Why not wait?!” somebody else questioned. “Fresh start in the morning.”

  “Because”—Riker pointed to the ominous sky—“it might not wait. If that river floods we’re stuck . . . and I’m not going to get stuck.”

  “There’s quicksand out there,” came another voice, “and at night . . .”

  “We could lose hundreds of head!” another piped.

  “I don’t care if we lose a thousand. It’s better than losing the whole herd in a storm.”

  “We could lose our lives, too!” Another protest.

  “I’m not going to argue, and I’ll shoot any son of a bitch who moves in another direction. We’re going to start crossing now!”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  It could not have been much time.

  Not at all.

  But that kind of time can’t be measured. Time when life and death are in the balance.

  When one move, or even one word, is the primer to an explosion.

  They looked from Wolf Riker to each other, each expecting, or at least hoping, that someone would make that move, or say that word.

  They had all been victims of Wolf Riker’s abuse and brutality, of his relentless, unreasonable demands on the drive. Some had even felt the eruptive effects of his physical battering. Leach. French Frank. Smoke. They had suffered heavy blows dealt by the man who stood before them now and commanded, demanded, they risk limb and life unnecessarily.

  Who, or how many, would challenge Wolf Riker—and face a blue barrel of eternity from his .44?

  As I stood there in that instant—in the moment that seemed to stand still forever—a member of that pack, yet not a part of it—I weighed what the outcome would be. Would one or more of them dare challenge the fury of this man-wolf?

  Or would they instead back down and challenge the flowing red threat of crossing the wide torrent of the river into the dark night long after the day’s work should have been done?

  Draw against Wolf Riker and die now?

  Or take a chance against the river?

  Silence.

  Then a barely discernable murmur.

  Then the decision.

  The Red River.

  Preparations hastily made.

  Each hour, each minute, each movement—precious.

  Misting rain.

  A raft. Big logs tied together with rope.

  More logs fastened to help buoy the wagons across.

  And at the point, tired beeves being driven ever closer to the spilling banks of the river.

  Something came to mind afterward, something I paid little attention to at the time, because I had little else on my mind at the time—except survival—primarily my own and Flaxen’s.

  The drover known only as Drago, who had not uttered more than a fistful of words to me, or I believe, to anybody else on the drive, reigned up close by, looked at the river just ahead, then at me and smiled for the first time.

  “I hope this pony can swim, ’cause I can’t.”

  Flaxen, at Pepper’s suggestion, had switched from Dr. Picard’s wagon to Wolf Riker’s, driven by Pepper. Riker’s wagon was of better construction and Pepper, a better teamster than the medical man.

  She sat next to Pepper and held on to the seat for dear life—and life was dear, and danger imminent, to all of us doing Wolf Riker’s bidding.

  And everywhere there was Wolf Riker on his mammoth black mount, Bucephalus, shouting commands.

  Confusion. Seeming chaos. But out of the moving madness, the first ranks of the horned herd plunged into the mud-clogged banks of swirling cold water, pressed ahead by tons of moving beef, horns, and hoofs.

  The battle was joined.

  There was no turning back, the herd, the horses, the riders. It was either make the opposite bank or drown.

  And I, aboard Tobacco, was in the thick of it.

  Nobody is ever made into a cowboy in one day, or by one event, but this was as close as I, or anybody else, could come—and survive.

  The broiling sky was torn by bolts of crooked lightning, followed by drumming thunder, as the leaders of the herd plunged into the sweeping current—ten, twenty, thirty, with drenched cowboys swinging their lariats, yelling, swearing, driving the wide-eyed beeves, their struggling hooves, digging across the muddy bottom, then farther into the water where there seemed to be no bottom—swimming steers, and horses with noses jutting out of the stream.

  Voices.

  Desperate.

  Cursing.

  Commanding.

  “Keep ’em movin’!”

  “Quicksand! Mark it!”

  “Big log floatin’—watch it!”

  “Mud knee deep—keep away!”

  “Horse and rider stuck—need help!”

  “Keep that line movin’!”

  “More quicksand here! Mark it!”

  Cattle bogged in the soggy mounds past midstream—some pulled out by riders, some drowned.

  Chandler had never before been a trail boss, but that day, he was all cowboy. The first to reach the far bank with the lead steers—and the first to plunge back to do more of the same. The first, that is, after Riker and Bucephalus.

  Damned fool that I turned out to be, in the midst of the maelstrom, trying to keep the outer flank of beeves from drifting downstream in the whipping waters—with Drago ahead and Dogbreath behind, doing the same.

  And then it happened.

  Not ten feet ahead, Drago’s horse stumbled, buckled, and twisted into the rushing current. I had never seen a man drown, but had heard that he would go under, then rise to the surface before going down again.

  That’s not the way it happened. In a blinding flash, horse and rider disappeared. Almost immediately the horse’s head and mane appeared, swimming riderless toward the bank.

  But not Drago.

  Only his hat on the surface drifted downstream and then vanished in the distance.

  The rest of the crossing was a nightmare—and a sizeable part of it was all through the night.

  The sun, what there was of it, came down—and the moon, what there was of it, came up—a scimitar floating across a deep, dark sea of sky.

  It seemed that every animal ever born had been collected for this crossing—steers, cows, horses, mules, oxen, an endless mass of pitching, milling, unbridled creatures, buttheaded, and drenched—all clashing, as ignorant armies clash by night.

  After what happened to Drago, it all seemed unreal—weary-laden flashes:

  Riker changing mounts, from Bucephalus to a younger, but less formidable stallion—the wagons making it across—calves upside down with hooves flailing above the surging stream, then sinking from sight. The river rising with the night-falling rain.

  We were sailors on horseback—in a churning sea—without rudder—without sail—sudden comrades—separate—but together—faces grotesque as I had never seen them before—lashed by rain—lit by rods of lightning; Chandler, Smoke, Reese, Dogbreath, French Frank, Morales One, Morales Two, and all the rest—even Leach, who could not now complain about the dust—there was no dust—instead, rain and mud and the river.

  But in his own way Riker was right. If we had waited until the next day for a fresh start—the next day and fresh start would not have come for a long, long time.

  The endless night finally ended, and the endless herd finally was across the Red River.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  The morning broke clean, damp, but not wet.

  The rain had ceased to fall.

  Breakfast on the other side after a sleepless night.

  Cookie, Morales One, Morales Two, Flaxen, and I all pitched in.

  Hot beef, hot biscuits, and pale coffee.

  The drovers, barely awake but hungry, devoured breakfast and what should have been last night’s supper, while the herd grazed not far away.

>   Wolf Riker made another announcement. A brief one.

  “Finish eating and get a couple hours sleep—then we’re moving on.”

  No thanks for a job well done, no word of commendation. No mention of Drago. Wolf Riker turned to walk away.

  “Mr. Riker.”

  “What is it, Reese?”

  “After we eat and sleep . . . before we leave . . . do you mind if we have a service for Drago?”

  “You mean a prayer service?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s no body to bury.”

  “We can still say a prayer here, near the river where he drowned.”

  Wolf Riker shrugged.

  “Make it a short one.”

  Then he walked away.

  After moving north across the Red River, we were no longer in Texas—or any other state in the United States of America.

  This was known simply as Indian Territory. A vast unsettled expanse that had to be crossed before re-entering the United States in Kansas . . . during the war called “bleeding Kansas.”

  From the rumors rampant, this was the most dangerous part of the drive, and the drovers had made it known that they’d already had their bellies full of danger.

  Here, the drovers said, “there was no law and no God.”

  But on this drive there was Wolf Riker. And on this drive he was both.

  After Riker made his latest announcement there was the look of disgust, of defiance, in the eyes of all trail men who had listened. But they were all too tired to convert that look into anything more.

  At least for the time being.

  I did get a chance to spend a few moments with my “fiancée.”

  “Did you have a pleasant journey?” I smiled.

  “First-class transportation.” She returned the smile. “And you?”

  “Steerage,” I retorted.

  “I saw some of what you did, Christopher. You were magnificent.”

  “Scared stiff.”

  “That’s what made it so magnificent.”

  “Flaxen, if we get out of this . . .”

  “Not if . . . when.”

  “You’ve become an optimist . . . all right, when . . . there’s something I want to talk to you about. ‘Veltio Avrio.’”

  “A better tomorrow?”

  “That’s it.” I nodded. “Good night. See you in a couple of hours.”