Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  The man shrugged. “I’d have stickers in my feet in no time.”

  With the horseshoe about off, Wulf grinned. “They’d get calloused enough in time.”

  Turning the plate over, he noted the wear. “I can put it back on, but you’re close to needing a new shoe.”

  “Thanks. Just tack it on. It was loose and I need to go over to Fredericksburg today.”

  “Whatever,” Wulf said, and nipped off the excess rim of the horse’s hoof, before rasping the hoof down. Then, with a horseshoer’s knife, he trimmed the frog. The hoof, now freshly cut down, was white with streaks of gray. Checking the old plate, he stepped over and bent it some on the anvil. Then he picked up the hoof again. He felt pleased when he saw it would work all right. Sweat stung his eyes and blurred his eyesight until he blinked twice. He couldn’t get his problems out of his thoughts.

  With a mouth full of nails and a short-handled hammer, he drove the first nail in and then bent it over the front side so it didn’t stick the horse in his leg. He worked around with each one until the plate was in place. Then he put the hoof on a stand, clipped each nail, and bent them down. With a rasp, he rounded the shoe and hoof, then took it off the stand to see how the horse set it down.

  It was the flash of a badge that caught Wulf’s eye and made him notice someone standing there. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Wulf turned to the man who owned the horse. “Look all right to you, sir?”

  “I’m impressed. You did good. I wish now you’d reshod them all, but I need to get over to Fredericksburg.”

  “That’s fine. Pay Andy,” Wulf said with a head toss toward Andy, who was working on repairing a wagon wheel.

  “Yes?” he said to Deputy Sheriff Armand Shultz. The short man, armed with a huge Walker Colt on his hip, was standing there before him.

  “Wulf Baker?”

  “You know my name.”

  “Wulf Baker, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Kent Hughes. Put out your hands, I am going handcuff you. Make no move to escape or I’ll have to shoot you.”

  Andy rushed up from the back of the shop. “Shultz, what the hell are you doing here? You’ve known Wulf all your life. Put those gawdamn handcuffs away.”

  Wulf raised his hand to stop Andy. “Don’t—”

  Shultz staggered back and fought the huge six-gun out of his holster. He must have cocked it while drawing it for it fired in the air. The ear-shattering report caused a stampede of spooked horses in the street. Three horses hitched in front of the Adobe Walls Saloon next door jerked back in head-slinging fashion and tore down the hitch rail. When they went flying backward across the street, they spooked Mike McCarty’s big team of shires. They jumped over the rack and tore down Austin Street with the wagon scattering green-cut boards out the back in their wake like playing cards.

  In Andy’s shop, he was shouting at Shultz to put up that gawdamn gun before Andy stuck the barrel in his ass. Three cowboys yelling their lungs out came busting out of the saloon mad as hell about who was shooting around their horses. At the same moment, Mrs. Sherry’s terrified buggy horse came charging with one side of narrow wheels on the boardwalk and the other side on the ground. He came flying on the inside of the hitch rail and mowed the three punchers down. Andy snatched Wulf back in time against the open front door of the shop so it could pass them, but the high-stepping horse knocked Shultz on his backside out into the street, which in turn caused him to fire another round in the sky.

  Andy ran over and jerked the .45 out of his hand. “You can’t use it right, don’t pack the damn thing.”

  Marshal Volker arrived about that time. “Who in the hell’s doing all the shooting down here? My gawd, this is a mess. That cowboy all right?” He motioned to an unconscious man on the ground.

  “Hell, no, he ain’t all right,” the taller, bareheaded cowboy said, with his shirt sleeve shredded and him bleeding somewhere up where his hair quit on his balding head. “That damn runaway buggy horse ran right over him.”

  “Take him up to Doc’s office.” Volker turned to Shultz, who was sitting on the ground in the street rubbing his leg. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Damn horse broke my leg.”

  “What in the hell were you shooting at?”

  “Wulf Baker, for resisting arrest.”

  “Why gawdamn, man, he’s standing right here.”

  “Well, I’ve got a felony warrant for his arrest”

  Volker shook his head in disgust. He looked over at the onlookers and said, “Couple of you fellas as take Shultz up to the doc’s. Where is that warrant?”

  Shultz pointed to the folded paper on the ground that had been run over by the buggy tire. The marshal bent over and picked it up. “Says John Doe!” he shouted to no avail after Shultz, who two big Swedes, one on each side, were hauling off to Doc’s.

  “Wulf, go turn yourself in up at the courthouse,” Volker said. “I’m sure this is something that can be worked out.”

  “Volker, we ain’t so sure of that,” Andy said, handing the Walker over to the lawman.

  “I’ll tell ’em how he shot that rabid dog yesterday and saved that woman and her child,” Volker said.

  “That might not be enough,” Andy said. “He’s had words and a fight with his stepfather. We think this is a charge he made against Wulf.”

  “It’s better to get it straight than mess around. The law’s fair.”

  “All right,” Wulf agreed. “Andy, I’ll put up Ranger and I’ll go up there. You tell the attorney where I am if I don’t come back.”

  With a big lump in his throat, Wulf took a rope and tied up Ranger. “Stay here, fella. Andy will feed you. Stay.”

  Ranger dropped down. Not because he wanted to, but because his master told him to. Wulf knew how badly Ranger had wanted a piece of his stepfather the night before, but the dog also knew Wulf’s commands to stay out of those things when he ordered him to. He didn’t want Hughes taking anything out against his dog, who would have loved to have come to his aid.

  “I’ll see you,” Wulf said, and went with Volker.

  Despite the words and efforts of the town marshal, Wulf soon found himself in a cold cell with bars. Hughes finally had him out of the way. What he’d wanted all the time.

  Where was his lawyer?

  FOUR

  TWENTY-FOUR hours later, a Chinook came down the face of the Rockies, and Herschel woke to the ping of water dripping off the eaves. Things were thawing outside. He sat up in bed. Thank God. The weather was letting up.

  “What is it?” his sleepy-sounding wife asked, rooting her face in the pillow for more sleep.

  “A Chinook rolled in last night.”

  “Oh, my, how wonderful.” She threw her feet over the side of the bed and found her carpet slippers with her feet, then took the robe off the bedpost and quickly belted it. “I better get busy and get some food cooked. A Chinook means my husband wants to leave and go find those robbers.”

  He reached over and hugged her shoulder. “That’s my job.”

  “And we fought hard to get it, too.”

  “Took them all on and won because I had you to help me.”

  Buttoning up his wool shirt, he recalled the big rancher-small rancher war he’d had to solve upon taking office. That same conflict still smoldered, but he’d kept it in check since taking office and he treated each side equally. This robbery of Buffalo Malone needed to be solved and the criminals responsible rounded up. No telling what that would entail.

  “I know you want to see Buffalo Malone and find out all you can, but do you think it’s thawed enough to get through the drifts?” Marsha asked.

  “Cob and I’ll make it.” He kissed her on the cheek and she left to fix breakfast. Monday morning, and he was off to find the robbers. This snug two-story house was a long ways from the log cabin he’d had on his small ranch before he married Marsha and those bastards had burned it down to get to him.

  Being sheriff was a busy job, and also a
job that called on him to solve crimes. Many weren’t cut-and-dried-this Malone robbery might have more repercussions and twists in it than tying a knot in a cat’s tail. Dressed, he went downstairs into the lighted living room and stoked up the large fireplace with fresh wood. That done, he went into the kitchen, where smells filled the air, like her sourdough liquor as she worked on the dough atop her dry sink.

  “There will be more snow. It sure isn’t spring yet,” she said.

  “Oh, I know that dear, but—”

  “Yes, I know. Snow or no snow, you need to get those three men. But where did Malone get so much money that it required three packhorses to haul off?”

  “I have no idea, but I expect to find out.”

  She nodded, busy cutting out biscuits from the flattened dough. “You amaze me at times.”

  “How is that?”

  “You went from horse breaking and trading to law work like you were born to do it.”

  He nodded. “First, law needs to be fair and the same for everyone.”

  “I know, but you are just doing a swell job as sheriff. You still thinking any more about your father’s offer to help him run his large ranch down in south Texas?”

  “Some, but not enough to give up all this.”

  “I know you’d be happier ranching.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It would mean a lot less worrying about you for me.”

  “Marsha, I’ll be fine.”

  “I still worry when you go off to track down killers and robbers. Especially alone.”

  “Coffee water’s boiling,” he said to change the conversation.

  After breakfast, Herschel found his horse, Cob, was ready. After several days in his stall, the now-saddled Cob came out of the barn full of life. Mounting him, Herschel checked him up several times, and at last, in a shaky truce between the two of them, he rode him to the office in the slush.

  Things were going fine in the office and jail, so he left the operation to his men and headed west. Art told him Happy Jack had disappeared from the doctor’s office and no telling where he’d gone. Probably to get drunk.

  Since there was no one to interrogate, Herschel headed for Malone’s place. On the road, he found teamsters digging out snow-buried freight outfits, getting them ready to move again while they were able. With an hour of warming sunshine, the snow was fast turning to slush running off. It could cause flooding. There was frozen ground beneath it, and that meant no place to soak in. All it could do was run off. He reached the valley where Buffalo Malone lived, or more accurately, camped. There were three colorfully painted tepees and several hide-covered lodges. Plenty of barking black cur Indian dogs and a dozen winter-weary-looking horses in the pole pens.

  A tall straight-backed Indian woman in a beaded leather dress came out of a flap and waited for him to draw closer.

  “Hello, I am the sheriff.” He reined Cob and made him stand.

  “I am Running Water. He said you would come. You must come into his lodge. He cannot walk on his burned feet.”

  “Thanks—” Herschel looked around for a place to tie his horse.

  She shouted something in Sioux, and from one of the lodges a wide-eyed boy in his early teens came on the run.

  “Hold his horse,” she said to him.

  The boy nodded, and grinned when Herschel thanked him. To enter the tepee, Herschel had to crawl, making his pants knees wet. Inside, he handed Running Water his hat. In the dim light, he could see the bulk of Buffalo Malone lying on his back, propped up on a pillow with his feet wrapped in dirty bandages.

  “I see that dumb Happy Jack made it to town. Did he die?” Malone asked in a rusty voice. “I’d sure as hell get up and shake your hand, Baker, but I’m not walking good right now.”

  Herschel shook his hand and then squatted on his boot heels. “Happy Jack lost a horse and had a bad case of frost-bite yesterday when he got to Billings. But he left Doc’s office last night and they don’t know where he went.”

  “To get drunk, I suppose. That’s all he’s good for. Sit down, man. I’ve got a whole earful to tell you.”

  Herschel nodded and remained squatted on his heels. Malone started his story with three riders coming to his camp asking to buy some supper. His women (Herschel didn’t know how many wives the man kept) fed them and then the ungrateful three, as Malone called them, drew guns on them and demanded his gold.

  “When I wouldn’t tell them where it was, they tied me up and went to burning my soles with hot irons from the fire. That didn’t work.” Malone went to flailing around to sit up, and two of his women helped prop him up. Then, in the half-light, he showed Herschel the purple bruises and scabs around his neck. “That’s from where they hung me until I turned blue. I never told them anything. Then they caught Little Deer and said they would cut off her breasts. I knew they would have done it, too. Mean sumbitches. I could not let them do such foul things to an innocent girl. Could you?”

  “No.”

  “So I showed them my money. They took all of it and then stole three of my best horses to carry it away on.” Behind his bushy beard, Malone looked and sounded very troubled or pained.

  “How much money did they get?” Herschel shifted his weight to the right boot.

  “I don’t know. I can’t count that high.”

  “What form is it in?”

  “I’ll get you some.” Malone spoke to Running Water in Sioux, and she went for it.

  The coin she put in Herschel’s hand when she returned was five-sided and heavy enough in his hand for him to recognize where it came from. It was certainly old Spanish treasure. How did this buffalo hunter ever find that much of it?

  Malone raised up and looked at the coin. “Lots of them were round, too.”

  Herschel shook his head in disbelief. “Where did you get them?”

  “Ten years ago or so, I was down in western Kansas hunting buffalo and I found some bleached human skulls in some blow sand. Things were tight then in that country. Cheyenne didn’t like hunters, and I was too close to them and too damn far away from Fort Dodge for the army to save my ass.”

  With a nod, Herschel gave up and sat down on his butt.

  “Well, besides the human skulls, I also saw a metal-bound edge of a chest sticking out of the sand. It was creepy down there. Any moment I expect some pissed-off buck to come riding over the hill with murder on his mind and me wondering what I’d found.”

  Herschel laughed. “I bet that was fun.”

  “Fun, hell, I sure wasn’t constipated either at that time. I finally dug out that trunk. Hell, I couldn’t lift it and I sure wasn’t going for no help. You know, most of those buff hunters were outlaws. Why, hell, they‘d’ve cut my throat for a small sack of them gold coins. When I finally managed to open that first trunk and I found it was full of them doubloons—that’s what they call ’em—my heart stopped. It was so bad, I had to sit on my butt for thirty minutes, unable to even breathe.” Malone looked still in awe.

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I reburied that trunk and tried to cover up things. Buried them skulls over it. Injuns don’t like dead things very well. I figure if they did some digging where I’d been and found them, they’d quit. I left that outfit of rough-necks I was hunting with and went back to Fort Dodge. Bought me two spans of mules and a wagon with them coins. There was lots of that Spanish-Mex money around those trading posts at the time, so it didn’t draw too much suspicion. I found me two big stout squaws that had been whoring around them black soldiers—they came easy.

  “I got four Spencer repeating rifles, too. Fifty-caliber, and lots of ammo. Trying to keep all this business quiet and all them hang-around fellas asking me where I was going hunting next with my new outfit.

  “I just acted like I didn’t need any skinners or help—’cause I really didn’t trust a one of them not to cut my throat for even a small sack of that gold. Besides, those two squaws were big enough to handle the job of skinning.”

  Hersche
l laughed. “You were in a tough spot. Buying equipment, supplies, and weapons. I imagine they did watch you close.”

  “Oh, hell, yeah. I got all set with supplies, shovels, and we left in the middle of the night. That squaw I called Timber could damn sure drive mules, and her sister, Hoss, could swing a whip. I rode one horse and led two more ponies. We made thirty miles the first night and day, which was fast on those rough roads leading south.

  “Along the way, we shot a few buffalo and the women stretched out the hides. I didn’t want anyone that followed us to think we wasn’t any more than hiders. It was working. We drove over there one night, dug it up, and loaded that first trunk and came back to our camp before sunup.”

  “Were you excited?” Herschel asked.

  “About pissed in my britches I was so excited. Then I got to thinking where there was one, there could be more. And there was. We went back and dug them up. Six trunks in all. They were still on the pack train animals’ backs. You’d find a skeleton of a horse, and there would be two trunks still on the packsaddles. There were arrows in the horses and trunks, but I think they’d got away from the Injuns and then died of their wounds and the blow sand covered them.”

  “So all these years, you’ve had all this treasure and no one knew about it?”

  Malone nodded. “It’s been a burden, keeping it a secret. A mule kicked Timber in the head near Fort Douglas, Wyoming. I hated that she died. Syphilis took her sister, Hoss. The doc said there was nothing he could do for her.” Malone dropped his chin and shook his head. “They was damn good women. And by gawd, I done all I could for’ em.”

  “I know you did. How do you think these three men knew you had it?”

  Malone shrugged. “Word got out somewhere that I’d spent a little of it. Someone said that old squaw man’s got some Spanish gold. I could tell they were shocked half to death when they found that much. I used to keep them trunks separate. I got lazy. It was all in one lodge. But they could have left me one trunk.”

  “You could have lived the rest of your life on that,” Herschel said.