I had been to funerals before.
But none like this.
There was no casket. No remains. No family. No clergyman. No chapel.
A hillock. By the side of a river.
All the members of the drive. All but Wolf Riker.
Alan Reese stood a short distance from the rest of us near the banks of the Red River.
In his hands, a Bible.
Unopened.
He spoke the words.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
All the heads were bowed.
“He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”
Reese looked toward the river and continued.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”
Wolf Riker appeared and stood nearby. Some of the drovers were aware of his presence, others were not.
“Thou annointest my head with oils: my cup runneth over.”
I took hold of Flaxen’s hand.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Reese turned toward the mourners.
“None of us knew much about him except that he was called Drago and was a cowboy doing his job—”
“Murdered by a madman,” Simpson’s voice cut through the service.
“—a cowboy and one of God’s flock doing his best and who is now at peace, looking down—”
“Cursing his killer,” Simpson again.
“—at those of us who worked with him and who must someday join him—”
“Put an ‘amen’ to it,” Wolf Riker said.
“—until that certain day of resurrection. Amen.”
Wolf Riker walked closer and stood near Karl Simpson.
“I heard what you said, Simp.”
“And so did God,” Simpson said.
“But I’m right here in front of you.”
“And so is God.”
“We’ll see about that, Simp. You had a few things to say just a minute ago. Do you have anything to say now, or are you afraid to?”
“I fear no man, Mr. Riker.”
“We’ll see about that, too, Simp.”
“Mr. Riker, please . . .” Alan Reese took a step closer.
“Shut up, Reese. Well, go ahead, Simp. Maybe this’ll help.”
Riker’s hand moved like a snake back and forth across Simpson’s face slapping him again and again.
Blood flowed from Simpson’s mouth. He swung at Riker, but Riker was too quick and smashed Simpson with powerful blows, an avalanche of fury, to the face and body until the man buckled and started to fall. But Riker held him with one hand and with the other, pummeled him without mercy. Simpson tried to strike back . . . in vain.
A final, seemingly fatal, blow, then Riker let him fall.
Flaxen turned and ran away.
Riker stood over the crumpled form.
“I can’t abide betrayal.”
CHAPTER XLV
In that moment after Wolf Riker uttered those words and stood there without missing a beat or breath, I thought that it might be the end of the drive and of Wolf Riker.
Individually, the drovers were no match against Riker. No one of them could pull a gun faster, or fire with more accuracy. No one could match his speed and strength. When it came to strength, Smoke was the only one who had a chance. But after what Riker had done to Simpson, even that black giant could not be considered a formidable opponent.
No. There was nobody among them—among us—who had the potential.
But all of us together. That would be a different matter. A different contest.
If a score of men drew their guns simultaneously, springing hammer and trigger, with barrels exploding at the same human target—some would die—but so would Wolf Riker.
Or, if all leaped upon him with fists striking the face and body of one man, even a superior man that was Wolf Riker, he could not withstand the onslaught. Not even if Pepper rushed to his side.
Wolf Riker would be subdued.
His reign would be done.
And so would the drive.
But that moment came and went.
And nobody moved.
Not Leach. Not Smoke, or French Frank, Dogbreath, Latimer, or any of the others.
Nobody.
Except Wolf Riker.
He reached into his pocket, retrieved a cigar, put it into his mouth, lit the cigar, and moved away.
Then did Dr. Picard and Alan Reese go to the side of Karl Simpson.
And then the drive continued into the Indian Territory.
That night supper was served, but it was subdued, almost silent. The drovers were still stunned by the events of the crossing and what followed between Simpson and Riker.
Cookie kept a keen eye on his carving knives and on anybody who seemed to come too close to them.
There were whispers and furtive glances between the drovers and toward Riker’s wagon. Would he come out among them that night?
He wouldn’t.
But Pepper did.
He had a late supper while standing, holding a plate and looking at no one in particular.
But from time to time they looked at him, knowing that in order to get to Riker they would have to go through him—or do it when Pepper wasn’t around—which was seldom—or never.
I did have the feeling that if there was going to be an attempt against Riker, it would not be during the bright daylight, but under the cover of darkness—at night.
But not that night.
The men were still too shaken, too impotent.
They would wait and conceive some sort of plan when they could take Wolf Riker unaware—and also see whether Karl Simpson would survive.
At least that’s what I thought.
I went to the wagon where Simpson lay, tended by Dr. Picard and Flaxen.
Simpson’s face was swollen; he was still alive, breathing irregularly and even muttering.
“Doctor, how is he?”
Picard pointed.
“Ask him.”
I approached and leaned close, although it was appalling to look at him.
“Mr. Simpson . . . it’s Guthrie, Christopher Guthrie . . . can you hear me?”
He nodded, barely.
“You’re going to make it . . . you’re going to be all right.”
His voice was just above a guttural whisper.
“I’m going to kill him . . . I’m going to kill Riker.”
I had seen and heard enough.
Outside the wagon, Alan Reese was waiting. “Mr. Guthrie. I saw you go in. Is he alive?”
“He’s alive.”
“Thank God.”
“Yes, he’s alive, Mr. Reese, and is swearing.”
“Swearing?”
“Swearing to kill Riker, and speaking of God, Mr. Reese. I’ve seen many actors on the stage pretending to be someone else, a banker, doctor, lawyer, even a clergyman. But this morning I had the feeling . . . watching and listening to you, that I was not seeing someone pretending.”
“Mr. Guthrie . . .”
“It was you who kept Mr. Yirbee’s Bible . . . who suggested the service, who held that Bible in his hand, and who quoted words from that Bible without opening it . . . words that came from the heart and soul, words you had spoken before. Many times before. There were other things, signs that set you apart from the rest. You are not like the other men on this drive. Mr. Reese, are you a clergyman?”
Silence.
“Sir,” I said, “you are not obliged to answer.”
“I will answer. But only to you. Yes, I am a clergy-man.”
“I thought so.” I smiled.
“I’m an unfrocked priest.”
C
HAPTER XLVI
There are all kinds of islands.
When someone says the word island, any one of a dozen visions might come to mind . . . a tropical island, a coral island, a volcanic island, a desert island, a polar island . . . an island composed of sand, or ice, or lava . . . any size; small enough to see all the way across, or a continent within itself—within sight of other land or isolated, thousands of miles from anything but water.
But we were on a different kind of island.
“Indian Territory,” it was called.
And, unlike other islands, it consisted of land surrounded, not by water, but by other land. Land, that included some states—and some territories—Texas, Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma.
The Indian Territory was set aside by the Federal Government primarily for the so-called Five Civilized Tribes: Cherokee, Seminole, Creek, Choctaw, and Chickasaw. But during the Civil War the Five Civilized Tribes gambled on the side of the Confederacy and since then the vast region had become a cauldron of chaos.
Tribes, justifiably not called civilized—Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache—charged in and considered everything they could kill, rob, rape, and exploit to be fair game.
Much of the land was rich and fertile, suitable for farming. But much of the trouble was that the Indians were not farmers. Not like white people, not like settlers who built houses and barns, raised cattle and crops; individuals who staked a claim to a section of the land, stayed and raised a family in one place.
The Indians were hunters—individuals who owned no land—who owned all the land—hunters who moved with their prey and their possessions, in tribes large and small, and felt no compunction in taking from other tribes, by strength or stealth, whatever they needed or wanted—horses, women, weapons, whatever suited their needs or desires—to ride, to copulate, or to hunt buffalo. They lived by percepts the whites did not grasp—nor did the Indians grasp the ways of the whites.
But one thing the Indians did grasp—that this territory belonged to them, by divine right, and by right of treaty with the white government—and whoever crossed into their territory could rightfully be considered invaders.
But beside the Indians—Comanche, Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Apache—there was another breed.
Comancheros. Dirty men in a dirty trade.
They were called Comancheros because they did business with the Comanches and other tribes—providing guns, ammunition, whiskey, assorted provisions, and prisoners, often women—stolen and kidnapped—often from wagon trains moving west—or cattle drives moving north.
Comancheros. Scalawags, highbinders, backshooters, outlaws from both sides of the Civil War and below the border.
Into and across this terrain lay the destination of the Range Wolf Cattle Drive.
And it was on that night, after we had crossed the Red River, prayed for the immortal soul of one called Drago, after Riker had beaten Simpson nearly to death, after Simpson had sworn to kill Riker, and after Alan Reese had confided to me that he had formerly worn the round white collar, Pepper moved close to me and spoke just above a whisper.
“Mr. Guthrie, the boss wants to talk to you.”
CHAPTER XLVII
“Hero or villain? Well, Guth, what am I so far in your appraisal? In your journal?”
Brandy and cigars.
We had settled, Wolf Riker more comfortably than I, on chairs across from each other in his wagon when he smiled and asked the question.
I had to weigh my answer. Weigh it carefully.
While I was no Boswell and he certainly was no Dr. Johnson, there was an advantage for me in these meetings and discussions, although Wolf Riker did most of the discussing.
And it was to my advantage to continue the meetings—from a professional point of view if I was going to write a book about this western adventure—and from a personal point of view in cultivating a relationship, if not friendship, with the mercurial creature who sat in front of me.
Besides, I was curious about the events that shaped this complicated network of paradoxes.
I did not want to be salient.
I wanted neither to flatter, nor to offend.
And so I sipped the brandy and inhaled the cigar as I weighed my answer—carefully.
Maybe too carefully. Riker seemed more than a trifle impatient.
“Well, Guth, what’s your answer?”
“My answer is . . . how can I answer that question when your question includes two words?”
“What two words?”
“‘So far.’ It’s like trying to solve a riddle knowing only half the anagram.”
“By heaven!” He nodded. “You’re right, and that’s why you’re here, to listen to the rest. All right, where were we?”
“Your shot hit your brother’s shoulder, his shot hit Elizabeth. Like Cathy Earnshaw, she died early, but is not buried on the English moors. She rests on the ground that you’ll never give up—the Double R. What happened to you after that?”
“Yes . . . well, I can’t tell you about that without telling you about what happened to . . . my brother.”
I was relieved he said that. It spared me having to ask.
“Please go ahead, Mr. Riker.”
“By then the war was raging and both North and South were breeding their hero generals. Most of them on both sides had been cadets at West Point, many of them at the same time. And many of them had fought under the same flag on the same side during the Mexican War; but just over a dozen years later, they were fighting under different flags, on different sides and trying to kill each other.
“For the Union: William Tecumseh Sherman, Philip E. Sheridan, John C. Fremont, George Armstrong Custer, Ambrose E. Burnside, Joseph Hooker, David G. Farragut, and a seemingly endless blue line of officers, under the command of Ulysses Simpson Grant.
“For the Confederacy: J.E.B. Stuart, P.G.T. Beauregard, T.J. Jackson, Joseph E. Johnston, Jubal Early, Albert Sidney Johnston, symbols of the South under the greatest symbol and soldier, Robert E. Lee.
“For reasons of his own, my brother chose to fight for the Union, even though Texas had seceded from that Union. He rose to the rank of Major in William Tecumseh Sherman’s Army of Tennessee.
“My reason was simple. The Double R. No bunch of Yankee bastards was going to take it away from me . . . and that included my brother.
“In the first few months the Confederate Army seemed invincible, winning victories in battle after battle: Fort Sumter, Lexington, Belmont, Shiloh, Fort Royal, Bull Run.
“But as the war progressed—or regressed—matters grew worse for the South . . . and Texas. The seaports were blockaded by Northern gunships, and the Yankee armies had cut off passage by road and rail.
“The time had come for me to leave Texas in order to help save Texas.
“I had mortgaged the Double R for twenty thousand dollars to pay off my ranch hands, some who were enlisting, and some too old to enlist, and left enough money for Pepper to run the ranch, until I could come back and pay off the mortgage . . . in legal tender.
“I joined the general who, in the thick of battle led his Black Horse Raiders, better known as the Invincibles, like bolts of lightning into the Northern Brigades. He won more decisive Southern victories than any officer, including Bull Run, Antietam and Fredricksburg—J.E.B. Stuart—General James Ewell Brown Stuart—the boldest, most beloved cavalry commander in the ranks of the Confederacy. Bucephalus and I were a part of those ranks in time to charge at his side at Chancellorsville, where he took command when Stonewall Jackson fell, and we rode with him at Gettysburg, and the Wilderness.
“To me J.E.B. Stuart was more than my comrade and commander. He was a legend. It would have been an honor to lay down my life in his stead.
“But it didn’t work out that way.
“The South was fighting insuperable odds. There were over eighteen million people in the North, and nine million in the South, a third of them slaves. The North had nine-tenths of the nation’
s manufacturing capacity, two-thirds of the railroads, and most of the country’s iron, coal, and copper. It controlled the sea. Attrition—Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan took their toll.
“Sherman made no secret of his strategy. ‘War is hell,’ he proclaimed, then added, ‘At best it’s barbarous and I intend to be just that—to break bridges, tear up railroads, smash mills, burn and destroy all supplies from here to the Atlantic salt water.’
“He did that and more, cutting a swath of death and demolition all the way—with my brother by his side—on the march that led to the destruction of the South.
“I presume that you were a part of all that, weren’t you, Mr. Guthrie?”
I shrugged, then answered.
“Not a very active part, Mr. Riker.”
“Well, I must say, my brother was—with two battlefield commissions—the second as Major, given by Sherman himself at Chattanooga. And Dirk marched through Georgia with Sherman and was with him when Sherman sent Lincoln a telegraph.
“ ‘Mr. President, I give you Atlanta.’
“But Dirk, along with other Yankee officers, was given something else—spoils for their war chests. The Northern Army could burn the Confederacy’s supplies and houses, but many of the Southerners were in a hurry to escape with their lives and left behind other valuables including coins and jewelry.
“Besides slaves and camp followers, there was another band that traveled with the Union Army, that band was composed of Yankee traders—money men, movable brokers—who would purchase the loot from the officers’ war chests, or whatever the enlisted men could steal from the South, in return for Yankee dollars.
“This was the band that Major Dirk Riker did business with. He had no use for silver ware, or necklaces, rings or loot of any kind—except for Yankee dollars that someday would buy him anything in Texas that he wanted. If he lived.
“And Major Dirk Riker did live.
“But General J.E.B. Stuart did not live.
“Not past the age of thirty-one. He led us on a path of glory. But it was too short a path. We would have followed him into hell, knowing that many of us would not come back. But as the poet said, ‘the paths of glory lead but to the grave.’
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