The Range Wolf

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “No, thanks.”

  “And I suppose you expect thanks from me for what you did.”

  “My expectations are . . . limited. Not what they used to be.”

  “Good. Then you won’t be disappointed. You saw it all, Mr. Guthrie. Who was it? Who stuck me?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  Again, no answer.

  “And they know you saw who it was, still they turned you loose. Why?”

  “It was either turn me loose, or kill me. They decided to turn me loose.”

  “But why? Did you make a bargain with them? A promise? To spy for them?”

  “I don’t think you believe that.”

  “But you won’t tell me. Cookie, do you know why you’re here?”

  Cookie smiled and nodded.

  “Of course you do. Cookie’ll find out, won’t you, Cookie?”

  Eustice Munger nodded again.

  “That I will.”

  “I want a list of every man who was in on it.”

  “Good as done,” Cookie wasted no time answering.

  “Then good night and get out of here. You, too, Doc.”

  “But I haven’t . . .”

  “You’ve done enough . . . good as new. Now go ahead, I want to talk to Mr. Guthrie.”

  “All right,” Picard shrugged and closed his medical bag. “But go easy for a while, unless you want those . . .”

  “I’ll go easy, Doc. Now you and Cookie just go.”

  Cookie held the door open and indicated for the doctor to precede him, then closed the door from the outside.

  Riker moved toward the shelf, then with bottle in hand poured brandy into two glasses, pointed at them, then at me.

  “Sit down, Mr. Guthrie. Let’s have a drink.”

  We both sat. He lifted his glass as casually as if we had just taken a stroll to a pub.

  “What shall we drink to?”

  “Confusion to the enemy.”

  “Excellent.”

  I also lifted my glass and we each drank, he deeper than I.

  “Ah, but sometimes,” he said, “the point becomes knowing who is the enemy . . . as in this situation . . . this drive . . . this night. True?”

  “I’m not sure I . . .”

  “Of course you do. Friend or foe? Earlier tonight you came to my aid. I might have got out of that quicksand or . . .”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But that’s exactly my point. In any case at that point you were friend, put yourself in danger, maybe even risked your life. How many times have you done that? Risked your life for someone else. Rarely, I imagine.”

  “Go on.”

  “But a little while later, when I was attacked, you just stood by, for all I know, maybe even hid in the dark, so your presence would not be detected. What were you thinking then? What were you hoping? That I would win, or lose? Be killed? Or escape?”

  “I did cry out a warning.”

  “Did you? I didn’t hear you and neither did they. At any rate you did not act in my behalf . . . friend. Still later, you came to some understanding with those conspirators—so they let you go. What was that understanding? There must have been some negotiation. Part of it obviously was that you would not identify those who conspired—

  “That was the only part.”

  “—to kill me. Now there is a different approach. Assume that everyone is a foe—until proven otherwise. So, where do you stand, Mr. Guthrie? Friend or foe?”

  “There is another category.”

  “What?”

  “Neutral.”

  “No such thing. Not in this situation . . . this drive. If not now, then sometime . . . and soon, you will have to decide—if you haven’t already—the line will be drawn and you can’t straddle it, otherwise you’ll be caught in the crossfire, you and Miss Brewster.”

  He took another swallow.

  “Of course, I know on which side of the line Pepper stands, as for the rest, including you . . . something to think about.”

  It was my turn to drink.

  “There is another solution,” he said. “An immediate solution.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Suppose I gave you a gun. There’s one in this drawer, loaded. All you’d have to do is point it at me and squeeze the trigger and tear the life out of me. Would you do it?”

  “No. That would be murder.”

  “Self-defense. There are no witnesses. You could say I attacked you. There are those on the drive who would be glad to testify on your behalf . . .”

  “Pepper would kill me.”

  “You’ll be their savior. The drovers would see to Pepper.”

  “Still it would be murder on my part.”

  He relit his cigar.

  “Or maybe you think your chances are better if I stay alive. There’s no telling what these bastards might do—to you and Miss Brewster—if . . .”

  The cigar fell from his hand onto the table.

  Both hands swept to his forehead as he leaned forward in pain.

  “Mr. Riker . . .”

  “Never mind. You can go now . . .”

  “Let me help you, I . . .”

  “I don’t need your help . . . and don’t say a word to anybody, or I’ll . . .”

  “I won’t say anything. Good night, Mr. Riker.”

  I lifted the still lit cigar from the table and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  CHAPTER L

  I had sworn that I wouldn’t say anything.

  First to Leach and the conspirators—that I would not identify the attackers—then to Riker, that I would not reveal he suffered a different kind of attack, one that rendered him vulnerable and nearly blind.

  But before that, he had posed a provocative question. When the line was drawn, and a decision had to be made, a decision of life or death, perhaps of many lives and deaths—where would I stand, and how far would I go?

  Instinctively, I had come to his rescue at the quicksand—but at the campfire, whether by instinct, self-preservation, judgment, or cowardice, I took neither side.

  And I’d played enough poker to know a bluff when confronted by one, such as Riker’s volunteering to provide me with a loaded gun and sit still while I squeezed the trigger and tore the life out of him. He knew that would never happen—and that he never would allow it to happen.

  Something else he said struck home. In spite of his unpredictable, pitiless brutality at times, and in light of his confiding in me concerning what I was writing about him, were Flaxen and I better off if he lived and succeeded, or if Leach and the other “mutineers” prevailed by any means, including murder?

  Weighing the scale of survival, on which side was our salvation?

  For that matter, at this time on the drive, who was on what side? It was apparent, at least to me, who, and how many, would strike against Riker—those who already had—Leach, Smoke, Dogbreath, French Frank, Latimer, and Simpson, who now possessed the knife that Leach stole from Cookie. All it would take would be for one of them to strike a fatal blow. But easier said than scored against Riker, who probably would take no more solitary walks at night, and with Pepper always on alert.

  Beside Pepper, who else would remain, if not loyal, at least not mutinous? Dr. Picard, Chandler, and probably Reese, the unfrocked priest. As for Cookie, in spite of his “good as done” spy mission, I wouldn’t trust him as much as a rattlesnake. At least a rattlesnake gives warning.

  As for Morales One, Morales Two, and the rest of the drovers, they probably had more to gain, even with the odds against it, finishing the drive and collecting top wages from Riker, than risking their lives going against Riker and collecting nothing. The drive never could be finished without Riker’s discipline, determination, and domination.

  The other alternative was desertion—for the drovers who were becoming more and more obdurate—and that might eventually be the course for Flaxen and me. But desert to where—and what?

  Hostile In
dians and craven Comancheros in uncharted territory.

  And so, weighing the scale of survival, for the time being, for Flaxen and me, the better course was to put our trust in Wolf Riker.

  But it was a thin crust of trust.

  CHAPTER LI

  On a Sunday afternoon I was saddling Tobacco to do a little exercising for the both of us. As I mounted I saw a sight I had never seen before.

  A rider on a roan reined up next to me.

  The rider was Pepper. And the expression on my face was a giveaway.

  “Why the eye-pop look on your pan, sonny? It ain’t that I can’t ride, it’s just that I don’t favor it—except for certain occasions.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Just follow me.”

  We rode along for over a mile, nearly two, into a narrow tree-lined gully.

  “This’ll do,” Pepper said. “Unmount.”

  I did. It wasn’t easy for Pepper, but so did he.

  “We’re far enough out of the sound of gunshots from them beeves, and it’s about time you learned a little sumptin’ about that iron on your hip.”

  By then I had realized what he had in mind.

  He unstrapped his saddlebag and pulled out a couple of containers.

  “I brought along plenty of cartridges. Now, there’s them that keep the hammer on an empty chamber. I’m not one of ’em, might need that extra cartridge. Now, the most important thing is . . .”

  For a moment I couldn’t help thinking about how Pepper had taught Dirk and Wolf Riker his rudimentary rules of drawing and firing a gun—but only for a moment. Pepper was a masterful tutor and I became an eager pupil of his “Hook. Draw. Fire.” tutelage.

  A couple of hours, and one hundred or so cartridges later, I was not exactly a pistolero—but then, not exactly a pilgrim either.

  In the next few days the ground became firmer and the drive moved faster. Almost fast enough to please Riker. At least he was not displeased.

  Riker said nothing more, to me or anyone else, except maybe Pepper, about the quicksand incident and what followed.

  Simpson continued to recover, even to the extent of resuming his duties on horseback—but maintained a solid silence and avoided eye contact with Riker.

  Cookie scurried about more than usual, talking, listening, even bantering, with Leach and the others.

  I made it a point to thank Alan Reese for putting in a favorable word for me before Leach and company had decided to set me free. Reese’s only response was a slight shrug.

  And one evening I did get the chance to spend some time with Flaxen.

  I told her about my conversation with Riker and his latest seizure in the wagon—that I had weighed our prospects, if and when Leach and the others made their move against Riker—including the possibility of the two of us bolting the drive and taking our chances in the Indian Territory—and concluded that, after weighing the chances, it was wiser to stay with the drive so long as Wolf Riker was alive and well.

  “He may be alive,” she smiled, “but I’d hardly say that he is well. After some of the things he’s done I’d say that he was at least borderline crazy.”

  “There are things you don’t know, Flaxen, things that he’s told me, about what’s happened in the past and what this drive means to him . . .”

  “Christopher, no matter what’s happened before, and what it means to him, you can’t condone his . . .”

  “I’m not ‘condoning’ anything, Flaxen. He’s a cold-blooded, callous brute . . .”

  “That we agree on.”

  “But if anything happened to him, such as what might have happened with the quicksand, would we, you and I, be better off with the rest of them—or taking our chances . . .”

  “Christopher, if it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be alive, so do you want to hear my conclusion—what I think?”

  She went on before I could say anything.

  “It’s my conclusion that it’s best you do the deciding. I’ll stay or go—with you.”

  After supper, but before total darkness, Wolf Riker approached and extended an empty cup.

  “Let’s have some more of that swill.”

  I poured.

  “Have you been thinking about our conversation the other night?” he asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things—including our conversation.”

  “Good. I want to . . .”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Riker,” Chandler moved up next to Riker. “I’d like to go over a couple of things about tomorrow. There’s something I’d like to show you before it gets any darker, if that’s okay.”

  “All right. Let’s walk and talk. You come along, Mr. Guthrie, and we can continue our conversation after that.”

  Cookie started to say something, but Riker’s look put an end to it, and the three of us, Riker, Chandler, and I, moved away.

  “I don’t like the looks of some of the horses in the remuda, and . . .”

  “Chandler, before you say anything more I want to tell you that you’ve done a good job, considering your experience, or the lack of it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Riker.”

  “And when we finish up in Abilene there’s going to be a sizeable bonus coming to you.”

  Both Chandler and I were pleasantly surprised.

  “Well, sir, I do thank you.”

  “You could use some extra cash, couldn’t you?”

  “You bet. My wife and I’ve had our eye on a little spread along the Brazos and . . .”

  “WOLF!”

  Pepper’s voice cried out a warning.

  It happened so fast that I wasn’t quite sure how it happened.

  Riker dropped his cup and it seemed he sprang aside while shoving Chandler as a knife raced through the air and struck deep into Chandler’s chest.

  At the same time Pepper’s Bowie whistled in another direction and penetrated almost to the hilt into Karl Simpson’s midsection.

  Twenty feet apart, both men, Chandler and Simpson, dropped to the ground.

  Riker looked toward Pepper.

  The rest of us stood frozen, all except Dr. Picard, who walked quickly and bent over Chandler whose eyes were locked open in death. Picard, with his fingertips, gently closed Chandler’s eyelids.

  Then Picard moved toward Karl Simpson. Pepper was already there pulling his Bowie out of the fallen man’s body.

  Picard went to his knees leaning over the quivering form as Riker came closer.

  The doctor looked up at Wolf Riker.

  “He’s alive.”

  “Make sure he stays that way,” Riker said—to everyone’s surprise, until he added—“because I’m going to hang him.”

  CHAPTER LII

  The same words beginning with—“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”

  And ending with—“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Spoken by the same man, with the same unopened Bible in his hand.

  But at a different gravesite. Not the bank of the Red River—but at the side of a hill in Indian Territory.

  And for a different decedent, not for the soul of a cowboy lost in the surge of an onrushing current—a drover known only as Drago.

  But for a buried cowboy named Chandler, killed at the hand of a fellow cowboy with a knife intended for another human target.

  This time, Wolf Riker, the intended victim did not interrupt the service by shouting “put an amen to it.” He stood silent until Alan Reese had finished the sermon, then stepped closer to Reese, paused for a moment, looked around at the mourners and spoke.

  “The trail boss is dead. This drive needs a new trail boss and I’m going to appoint one here and now. From now on, if I’m not around you’re all to take orders from him. The new trail boss is Alan Reese.”

  The drovers and the rest of us silent
ly reacted to this unexpected announcement from Wolf Riker.

  “That’s all,” he concluded, “we’ll move out in half-an-hour.”

  The mourners started to disperse, all except Riker and Reese.

  “Mr. Riker,” Reese spoke softly, “I have something to say to you.”

  “Go ahead and say it. And, Mr. Guthrie, don’t go away. I want you to hear this . . . if Mr. Reese doesn’t mind.”

  “No, sir, I don’t mind.”

  “Go on then.”

  “I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . I’m not . . . qualified.”

  “That’s for me to decide. Chandler thought he wasn’t qualified either, but he did a damn good job and so will you.”

  “The men won’t listen to me.”

  “They will because I told them to.”

  “I don’t want to be put in that position.”

  “I didn’t want to be put in this position either. But I am, and now so are you. You want this drive to succeed, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do your part. And as trail boss you’ll get the bonus that I promised Chandler.”

  “I can get by without the bonus. But Chandler’s widow, who doesn’t know she’s a widow, can’t. She needs it. Give it to her. That’s your good deed. A worthwhile gesture, don’t you agree, Mr. Guthrie?”

  I looked at Reese.

  “Mr. Riker doesn’t need advice from me. He has to answer to himself and . . .”

  I purposely didn’t say anything more.

  “I’ll take the job, Mr. Riker.”

  “Good. From now on you’re trail boss, Mr. Reese.”

  “About Karl Simpson,” Reese added, “if he survives . . .”

  “I said you’re the trail boss, Mr. Reese. I’m your superior. I make that decision.”

  Wolf Riker turned and walked away.

  “You did the right thing,” I said to Reese.

  “We’ll see.” He put the Bible in his pocket.

  The drive went on.

  Pepper had immediately retrieved his Bowie from the wound he had inflicted on Karl Simpson and replaced it in the sheath on his side. Cookie was also quick to reclaim his kitchen knife from Chandler’s lifeless body—and to go on with the “good as done” mission for Wolf Riker.