“He’s looking for a trail to follow,” Billie Jean said, “trying to find one horse that headed north.” She snapped at Rose then. “You just as good as told him that Wolf was heading for the Black Hills.”
At once alarmed, Rose pleaded, “No, I told him Wolf wasn’t going there!”
Billie Jean and Lorena exchanged perplexed glances. “Never mind,” Lorena said. “You never meant to give him any idea. He ain’t likely to find him, anyway.”
Ned spent the better part of the morning studying the different tracks that were in profusion around the stable and corral. Trying to think as Wolf might, he looked out over the prairie beyond the gathering of buildings that made up Three-Mile and picked out the way he would go if he was heading to the Black Hills. Following a path that led across a small stream, he urged Brownie forward. He stopped again before crossing over the stream and dismounted again when he noticed a hoofprint in the soft sandbank. Seeing at once that it was left by an unshod horse, he knelt down to examine it more closely, looking for anything unusual about it that would allow future identification. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the print, but still he felt that he might have hit upon some luck. There was nothing beyond his natural instincts that told him the print was left by the bay horse Wolf rode. On the other hand, it was from an Indian pony, only one pony, and it was a fresh track. He felt that put the odds in his favor and he decided to bet on it. If I’m wrong, hell, it won’t be the first time, he thought. He rose to his feet again and looked ahead across an expanse of prairie toward a pair of hills in the distance. Then he walked for a while, leading his horses, following the hoofprints until satisfied they were going to continue in the same direction, toward the twin hills. It just made sense, he thought, that the man would guide on the hills, so he spent no more time studying tracks and started out directly toward them.
While he rode, he speculated on the thinking of the man he hunted, and why he picked the Black Hills for his escape. He wondered then if Wolf had any idea of what was happening in the Black Hills: the fact that gold had been discovered there, and prospectors were already sneaking into the territory in spite of the treaty that prohibited it. Most likely, he decided, the poor bastard thinks he’ll be safe in a place whites can’t go.
More than fifty miles ahead of the deputy marshal, Wolf sat beside a shallow creek while he let his horse have some well-deserved rest. He had pushed the bay hard during the night, up through Rawhide Buttes, and across the rough prairie. The willing horse had not failed to respond to his master’s bidding, but Wolf was reluctant to push the animal farther. He had hoped to make it to the Cheyenne River that night, but he feared it was asking too much of the bay. There was deer sign all along the creek, and the temptation to stop there long enough to hunt was strong. Fresh meat would be welcome, so he climbed a short slope to study his back trail. As before, there was no sign of anyone trailing him. He didn’t really expect to see anyone, feeling fairly certain that an army patrol could not travel as fast as he, but it never paid to be careless. His intent was to outlast the soldiers, thinking they would more than likely start out after him with rations drawn for only so many days. And when they were used up, they’d call off the search and go home. He had done nothing wrong, so surely they would not follow him long. It would be a waste of the army’s time to continue looking for a man who had done no more than break a soldier’s arm. In fact, he told himself, they may not be after me at all. Lorena had said she would send them off in another direction, and he believed she would do as she promised, so he decided he could afford to take time to hunt.
He pulled the saddle off his horse and prepared to camp by the creek for the rest of the day. Once his horse was taken care of, he took his bow from the saddle sling and set out along the creek bank. A thick tangle of bushes intertwined with a stand of trees looked to be a good place for a herd of deer to settle down in the middle of the day, so he worked his way cautiously toward it. Sharp instincts, honed by the years he had spent as a boy and a young man living in the wilderness, did not fail him as he worked his way silently through the brush, pausing often to listen to the wind in the leaves overhead. They were there. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he was as aware of their presence as they were of his. When it became clear to his prey that they were in danger, they bolted. He reacted immediately, loosing an arrow that struck one of the five does as they jumped across the creek. There would be fresh meat for his supper, and there had been no gunshot to alert anyone who might be within hearing distance. The thought brought to mind the loss of his treasured Henry rifle. He had had no occasion to fire the Sharps carbine he now carried. He supposed it was an excellent weapon. From what he had heard, it was a more accurate weapon at longer range than his Henry, but it just didn’t give him the same sense of confidence. Cartridges to fit it might be more difficult to find—he wasn’t sure. It made little difference, he supposed, for cartridges of any caliber would be hard to find where he planned to go.
The rest of the day was spent skinning, butchering, and preparing the meat. The doe was young and tender and he filled his belly with the fresh-roasted meat, a welcome relief from the salt pork the prostitutes had served while he was with them. He could not take the time to cure the hide, so he rolled it up to ride behind his saddle until he established a more permanent camp in the mountains ahead. Already, he was beginning to feel the release of pressure that had been brought about by his recent exposure to what people referred to as the civilized world. The soldiers, the saloons, the world of prostitutes, was a life of which he had very limited knowledge, and he was not favorably impressed by what he had seen. Cautioning himself, however, that he could not assume he was free of the army’s pursuit, he periodically climbed up the slope to scan the horizon around him to make certain. The day passed with no sign of an army patrol.
The next morning, his horse rested, he left his camp on the creek and struck out for the Cheyenne River and its confluence with the Lightning. Reaching the fork where the two rivers joined a short time after noon, he stopped to rest his horse before pushing on to follow the river to its confluence with the Beaver. He made one final camp on the Beaver before varying his line of travel slightly east to head into the heart of the Black Hills. As he rode deeper into the foothills, he was aware of his understanding of the Indian’s reverence for the mysterious region they called Paha Sapa, which was Lakota for “Hills That Are Black.” Wolf could understand the reason for the name, for from a distance the thick stands of ponderosa pines appeared to be black. The Sioux especially considered Paha Sapa the very center of the world. It was a place of mystique and magic, where young men would go to seek visions that would provide their pathway of life. To Wolf, it was a place where he could hide from those who would imprison him. Even though it was a place the Sioux held sacred, he was confident that he could fade into its high peaks and lush valleys with flowing streams of clear, cold water, much as he had done as a boy in the Wind River Mountains.
“Looks like our boy stopped here awhile,” Ned Bull announced to his horse. He dismounted and let Brownie drink from the creek while he poked around the campsite. “He went huntin’,” he continued musing aloud, “got him a deer, looks like.” The tracking had not been easy up to that point, although it did not appear that Wolf was taking great pains to try to hide his trail. But Ned was still confident that the tracks he had followed to this creek bank were those of the single Indian pony that had left Fort Laramie. I’m going to feel like a damn fool if they ain’t Wolf’s tracks, he thought.
By the time he discovered Wolf’s camp on the Beaver, Ned was convinced that the fugitive was no longer worried about being tailed. There were no efforts to hide his campsite or cover his tracks at all. “I believe he’s ridin’ pretty easy, Brownie. He don’t figure on ol’ Ned doggin’ his trail.” Even as he said it, he stood looking out at the dark, tree-covered mountains ahead and wondered if it was worth it to continue. “If it was the other way around, and he was chasin’ me, I’d feel
pretty good about my chances of losin’ him in those mountains. Whaddaya think, Brownie?” As usual, the horse made no comment. Ned paused, as if waiting for it anyway, before deciding. “Ah, what the hell…might as well…give me a chance to see how good a tracker I am.”
Back in the saddle, he looked for a good place to ford, hoping the man he trailed might have selected the same crossing, or one close by, so he could find where he left the water on the other bank. He knew all too well that he had to find Wolf’s tracks on the other side or he might as well turn around and go home. His luck was holding steady, because when he crossed to the other bank, he discovered a fresh set of tracks leading up from the water. He looked up to project the apparent line of travel. It led straight toward the highest mountain he could see, so he set out to follow it. Unknown to him, there were two trackers behind him following the same trail, but their interest was not in the half-wild Wolf. Ned Bull was the object of their hunt.
“Maybe that wasn’t Arlo they were talkin’ about back there at that hog ranch,” Beau Taggart said. “You know, we don’t know for sure—just takin’ that ol’ whore’s word for it. What if Arlo’s back there in the jail at Fort Laramie all this time, and we’re chasin’ through Injun Territory lookin’ for somebody we don’t even know?” Beau, the youngest of the Taggart boys, was also the least patient. Four hard days in the saddle with little relief, except for one night at a hog ranch, was about the limit of his determination.
“Maybe it wasn’t Arlo that deputy shot,” Mace allowed, “but he damn sure brought in a dead man from the Cheyenne jail. That tall, bony whore, the one named Mae, said a soldier told her he saw the body. That big deputy that Clem Russell said came to get Arlo was Ned Bull, and there ain’t no doubt about that. That whore said there wasn’t no other dead prisoner brought in that she heard about, so don’t go gettin’ no ideas about quittin’ this trail. That son of a bitch shot Arlo, and he’s gonna have to pay for it. I ain’t about to go back home and tell Ma the bastard that shot Arlo is still livin’.”
Mavis Taggart had raised her three boys by herself, since their father ran off and left her when Mace was only nine years old. A born scrapper, and the youngest of Lester Dawson’s three offspring, she didn’t hesitate to beg, borrow, or steal anything she needed to keep food on the table, and she raised her sons to do the same. It came natural to her to live outside the law. It was a way of life the Dawson clan had lived by since before the Civil War. They set their own rules and enforced them as well, and they were not prone to forgive easily. Consequently, Mavis’s brother, Doc, set out to find her runaway husband, found him in a saloon near the Texas-Arkansas border, and dispensed his punishment in the form of four .44 slugs in his chest and stomach.
By the time Mace was fourteen and Beau, the youngest, was ten, the boys were stealing cattle, horses, and anything else of value. When the law began to put too much pressure on the young outlaws, Mavis left Arkansas and moved to Indian Territory, where a great many outlaws fled to avoid capture, including her brother, Doc, and his four boys. The move was hastened when Mace shot a deputy marshal who apprehended the boys after a stage holdup.
After the first killing, murder became much easier, and proved to be the best and quickest way to lessen the chances of pursuit. By the time her youngest was eighteen, Mavis could afford to retire and stay at home near Doc Dawson and his family while her sons carried on in the tradition of the clan. It was a good life until federal marshals out of Fort Smith decided to rid the Nations of all forms of outlaws and riffraff. The Taggarts fled to Texas, but things got too uncomfortable there after a while, so when they figured enough time had elapsed to let Oklahoma Territory cool down, the boys were back in business in their old haunts, including Wyoming Territory. In a short time, Doc and his wife moved to Oklahoma and built a cabin next to Mavis’s. Like his sister, he retired from the family business of rustling, robbery, and murder, leaving it in the capable hands of his four sons.
“I should never have let Arlo run off my hisself,” Mace lamented.
“Hell, there wasn’t much you could do to stop him unless you shot him,” Beau said. “Arlo never listened to anybody when he got the itch to get movin’. I never thought he’d try to pull off a bank job without us, though.”
“If he’da waited for us, he wouldn’t have got caught,” Mace said. “Holin’ up at Clem Russell’s place was a dumb thing to do. He shoulda knowed that would be one of the first places a marshal would look.”
“I still can’t see how Arlo let a lawman get the jump on him,” Beau said.
“He had to be fallin’-down drunk to begin with, to get caught in bed with that butt-ugly woman of Clem’s,” Mace remarked. “He’da most likely died of somethin’ he caught from her, even if that deputy hadn’t shot him.” Remembering it was his brother he was talking about, he reminded Beau that their mission was one of vengeance. “We need to quit this jawin’ and get back in the saddle, just like Arlo would be doin’ if it was one of us that got shot. I’d like to catch this bastard before he gets too far up in the Black Hills and we lose his trail in those mountains.”
Splashing through the water, the two brothers followed the tracks leading up from Hat Creek and headed toward a ridge of pine-clad brakes that separated the high plains from the valley beyond.
Chapter 6
Wolf pulled a strip of roasted venison from the spit he had fashioned over his campfire. He tossed it back and forth from hand to hand for a few seconds to cool it a little before tearing off a chunk with his teeth. This was his second night in this camp in a small clearing by a clear mountain stream, and he was giving a lot of thought to the possibility of making it his permanent home for at least the winter. The cold weather was coming on strong now, especially high up in the mountains, so he would have to pick a spot soon. This was a good place. There was plenty of game, good grass and water for his horse, and plenty of wood for his fire. There was little more he could wish for, except some coffee. He had learned to enjoy coffee while traveling with his three prostitute friends, and he regretted the lack of opportunity to buy some of the beans, now that he had some money.
He was about to reach for another strip of venison when he suddenly tensed, sensing something or someone. He strained to listen above the sound of the breeze stroking the pines. Then he heard a sound. It was the whinny of a horse, and his bay answered. Wolf grabbed his carbine and rolled away from the fire, ready to defend himself. Lying out of the firelight, he listened. There it was again, and he was sure that it was a whinny, this time closer. In a few minutes, a horse entered the clearing, walking slowly toward his fire. It was saddled, but there was no rider. He watched it intently for a few moments more before he got to his feet and walked cautiously toward it, peering into the darkness from which the horse had come. Then he heard the voice behind him.
“You can just drop that carbine on the ground. I’ve got my rifle aimed right square between your shoulder blades. You make one wrong move and I’ll send you straight to hell.”
Wolf was stunned, unable to believe he had been so easily trapped. He had heard the voice before, but he couldn’t place it. With no other choice, he laid the weapon on the ground.
“Now step back away from it,” the voice instructed. Wolf did as he was told. “Put your hands behind your back.” Wolf hesitated. “Put ’em back there or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
Wolf obeyed the command. He knew now where he had heard the voice before. “The last time you sneaked up on me, you damn near split my head open,” he said.
“I noticed you got your head bandaged up,” Ned replied as he quickly locked a pair of handcuffs on him. “Looks like you need to put a fresh one on, though. That one’s lookin’ kinda dirty.”
“Why did you come after me?” Wolf asked. “I never done you no harm.”
“I’m just followin’ orders. I’m a U.S. deputy marshal. I have to do what the government tells me to do, and they told me to go get you.” With the fugitive cuffed, Ned motioned for him
to sit down by the fire. “I might not have found you if it wasn’t for the odor of that meat on the spit there. I swear that smells good. Mind if I help myself?” He reached over and pulled a strip of the venison from the fire, keeping a steady eye on his prisoner, studying his reaction. He was rewarded with a look of pure astonishment.
“S’pose you just set yourself down right here by the fire?” Ned said, and stepped back while Wolf sat down, cross-legged, Indian-style. “I’m damn glad I caught up with you tonight. Another day or two tryin’ to follow your trail in these mountains and I mighta lost you for good. Too bad you decided to camp here, but lucky for me.” Wolf did not answer, but his eyes told Ned that he regretted it more. Ned chewed up the last bite and reached for another strip. “I swear this is good meat. I didn’t have no time to hunt. I had to keep on your trail.” He looked around him then as if searching for something. “We need some coffee to wash this deer meat down. Ain’t you got no coffeepot?” Wolf slowly shook his head, amazed by the big man’s rambling. “Well, I need some coffee. Can’t operate without coffee.” All the while as the lawman went on, he continued to study Wolf and his reaction to the meaningless banter. He could see no real evil in the young man’s eyes. Instead, he was reminded of an animal captured in a cage, unable to understand why.
“Well, I caught you. Now I gotta decide what to do with you,” Ned finally declared. Wolf remained silent, his steady gaze directed at the flames in his fire. Ned went on. “I could take you back for trial, but, damn, that’s a long ride back to have to keep an eye on a wild buck like you. I might get careless and let you get the best of me. That ain’t ever happened before, although there was a close time or two, and I’d hate for you to be the first.” There was still no reaction from the stoic figure seated before the fire. “Course, it’d be no trouble to me if I was to take you back dead. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you gettin’ rowdy on me.” Even that remark caused no reaction beyond the raising of Wolf’s eyes to meet the deputy’s gaze. The wild man had evidently accepted his fate. “Yep, that’s the best solution to my problem.” He paused to wipe the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. “The law says you deserve a trial, and I always go by the law. So I’m gonna give you a trial right now. We’ll see if you’re guilty or not, and the penalty is execution by Winchester ’73.”
Day of the Wolf Page 10
