Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “That would be a tidy sum to win. You learn all you can. Find out about the dog, too. Their dog may be up against one of our dogs that competes here today.”

  The man smiled, looking confident. “I’d say it was a good bet.”

  “Learn all you can. We could sure use their five hundred.” The man hurried off, and the Colonel turned back to Wulf. “The show is about to begin. We’ll have to see about that wild goat-herding.”

  Wulf nodded. Have to see? Sounded like the great Colonel Armstrong was about to take the bait.

  The announcer use a bull horn to get the crowd’s attention. Wulf saw the handler take the first collie on a leash. This dog had one white ear.

  The first competitor’s entry was a brown cur. One White Ear took his place on the ground beside the Colonel, who was now wearing a pith helmet and a Sam Brown belt with a holster containing a silver-plated Smith and Wesson pistol with a pearl handle. At six feet tall, the Colonel did look very formidable compared to the five-seven German farmer with the wool pancake cap and cheap overalls.

  They drew for position, and the Colonel won the first try. The five sheep acted high-headed, but the Colonel’s soft commands to the dog and the dog’s attention to the Colonel were what Wulf watched. White Ear never paid any mind to the crowd. His focus was on the sheep and his master. The dog was well trained, and the Colonel really had command of his every move. It was as if the dog was an extension of his arm.

  The dog dropped flat with a hand signal from the Colonel. Then slowly crept around the flock, acting like he was a snake on the ground. When in place, he rose and the sheep moved to his right. This could not look too easy, so when the sheep headed for the pen at a trot, the colonel moved his dog around to settle them down again. When they were bunched again, the dog, at his master’s command, moved the sheep slowly along the fence so the entire crowd could see him work. If a sheep acted ready to bolt, the dog was ready to face him off and turn him back.

  When at last the dog “herded” them in the smaller pen, the crowd went wild and applauded.

  The sheep were brought back and the Colonel took his seat in a high canvas folding chair under an umbrella for shade. The sun felt too good on Wulf’s back as he watched the German farmer drag his dog in on a rope leash.

  First of all, Wulf could see the dog was obviously shocked by the crowd. A dog that would work good in the cedars and live oak was going to be awed by the smell alone of all those people. It was a wreck. The sheep went wild over the cur like Wulf had expected, and the man lost his ten bucks.

  The Colonel politely shook his hand. White Ear was used three times. Then a new collie with a black ring around his eyes won the fourth contest. Wulf wasn’t certain his dog Ranger could win against these dogs. But a small smile crept in the corners of his mouth—wild goats were not well-trained sheep. The Colonel’s collies were good, but an eager young one slipped up and the Colonel lost ten bucks against a good local dog owned by a Mexican man named Hidalgo.

  They took a short break in the program. Wulf saw Andy and Bob talking to the Colonel and his man. They waved him over.

  “So you are the dog man challenging me,” the Colonel said, as if he’d made a discovery.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, where is this dog?’ he asked, looking around.

  “Have your announcer tell them to let Calico come through.”

  “George, tell them to let the dog in.”

  The announcer shouted for them to make way for the boy’s dog. The crowd snickered. Wulf put two fingers in his mouth and made a shrill whistle.

  They made quite an entrance. His dog Ranger was sitting aboard his horse Calico, who came trotting up through the aisle made for them. Then, with no effort, Calico leaped the low fence to come up the arena and put his head against Wulf’s one-strap overalls. The crowd went wild, and Wulf saw the dollar signs spinning in the Colonel’s blue eyes.

  As Ranger continued to sit on the horse’s back, Wulf nodded at the Colonel. “Yes, that’s my dog. Ranger.”

  “Well, this shall be interesting. I’ll collect a ten-cents admission wherever you will have this event to cover my expenses. The five hundred from each party will be entrusted with a man of high respect.”

  “How about Judge Arnold?” Bob Fiest asked.

  “He a local judge?” Armstrong asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Send for him. What else can this horse do?” The Colonel turned to Wulf.

  “Count, bow, rear up and walk on his hind feet.”

  “And come when you whistle. How long did it take you to teach that dog to ride?”

  “A while. Back then, he’d much rather’ve been down here than up there. Now he don’t care.”

  “I think I’m being led into a trap. Your training certainly impresses me, young man. Where are we having this event?”

  “Two P.M. tomorrow at Blair’s ranch,” Bob announced. “Wulf has never been on that place and those goats have never seen his dog, Ranger, or yours.”

  “What are the rules?” the Colonel asked.

  “We’ll draw position like here,” Bob said. “Paint three goats with red stripes and move them from one pen to the next.”

  Why the paint?”

  “So we know the goats in the pen are the right ones.”

  “Use six goats, paint three red, three blue. So we both start with fresh goats. How’s that?” Armstrong asked.

  “Fine,” Wulf agreed.

  So competition was set for Sunday. The public was invited. Admission was going to be ten cents, which the Colonel would collect. Texas-style wild goat-penning by two good dogs. White Ear and Ranger.

  Wulf noticed his stepfather, with his head all bandaged, and his mother in the crowd as they were leaving. It was the only thing that ruined a good day for him.

  SIX

  HE had so much money he couldn’t count it?” Art

  Spencer asked in disbelief.

  “I believed him. Ten years ago, Buffalo discovered a Spanish gold train in some blow sand down in Kansas. No telling what it was, but there were six trunks of gold coins on the skeletons of dead horses. Oh, he’s got some left, but they got most of it. It’s why they stole three of his horses to haul it. Malone thinks, and I agree, the amount of all that gold shocked them. They thought he only had a small sack of the stuff.”

  Art was turning over the five-sided coin in his fingers. “I never saw one like this before.”

  “It’s real gold and real old. He thinks Indians attacked the guards. The horses were full of Cheyenne arrows. The guards got away and then they later died. He found two human skulls there as well. Couldn’t trust any men up there, so he got two tall Indian women who’d been bedding them black soldiers and used them. He hunted some buffalo to cover his recovery operation since they had to dig up lots of sand to get all of the trunks.

  “Malone said he did some business cashing some coins with the First Bank of Montana, and I checked with Phillip Hinds over there. The coins are real. Five sides and all.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “We send telegrams to every sheriff in Montana, Wyoming, Dakota, and Nebraska. Ask them to investigate anyone who uses old Spanish coins for money. Tell them that we have had a major robbery and want to speak to anyone who knows anything about such coins.”

  “You don’t think the robbers are anyone local?”

  “I can’t rule it out. But I suspect those men heard way off somewhere that Buffalo had spent a few gold coins and must have a sackful somewhere. So we start with telegrams.”

  “I can do that. It sure made a big heist.”

  “Yes. He said he hoped they would leave him some, but in the end they stole his best horses to pack it all off.

  “I’m going to make a circle south today. Check some stores and outposts. See if anyone saw them leaving the county. I may be gone a few days. Is the new police chief working out?” Herschel asked.

  Art made a sour face. “I know we’ll need him this spring an
d more. That railroad will push in here or be close enough, we’ll be the biggest boomtown in Montana, but he’s not my kinda law.”

  Herschel knew what he meant. He and his men took troublemakers aside and made them promise no more trouble. This new chief and his three men used billy clubs any time they got a chance.

  The afternoon sun was bright. The snow was relegated to the shade and north slopes when he rode up to Killian’s Store on the northern edge of the Crow land. Several wagons and teams as well as hipshot horses were parked about, no doubt from Crows doing their shopping.

  He found Major Rhine, the store operator, in his office at the back of the large operation.

  “Well, the high sheriff is here,” Rhine said, glancing up from his paperwork. The heavy-jowled man with thick sideburns rose and shook his hand. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Three men spending old Spanish doubloons.”

  Rhine opened his desk and tossed five coins out on the desktop. “My head clerk gave them a hundred dollars for them. Are they real?”

  “Real as they can be. May I talk to your man?”

  “Sure you can. Who in the hell did they steal them from? I couldn’t believe they were real. How old are they?” Rhine held a five-sided coin up between his fingers.

  “I have no idea. A buffalo hunter discovered them ten years ago down in Kansas. These men robbed him of them five days ago.”

  “I was worried they were a hoax, but we get some Mexican coins up here. Texas cattlemen carried some with them on the herd drives. But I knew these were either old as hell or fakes.”

  “They’re real.”

  “Let me get Tim Blaine, my head clerk.” Rhine went to the door and called out to Blaine.

  “Something wrong?” the balding man in his thirties asked. He wore a green celluloid visor.

  “It’s about these doubloons,” Herschel said, indicating the ones on the desk. “And the men cashed them in.”

  “They are real, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Rhine said, getting back in his chair and indicating Herschel and Blaine should each take a chair, too. “They were stolen.”

  “Oh, my, I had no way to know that.”

  “I know” said Herschel. “Can you describe the men brought them in?”

  “One man. He was tall. Your height, but barrel-chested. Needed a shave or needed to grow a beard. It was gray-flecked. Large nose, hard brown eyes. His hair was brown and long. I guessed he was forty plus. Had a raised scar on his—left cheek. Ran from the corner of his left eye to beside his mouth.” Blaine drew the line with his finger on his own face. “Called himself Tom Downing. I figured that wasn’t his name.”

  “And the others?”

  “If there were others, they never came in. I never saw them. They must have stayed with the horses, huh?”

  “What did he buy with that much money?”

  “Foodstuff mainly. Flour, baking soda, beef jerky, candy, sugar, raisins, bacon, dry beans, and rice.”

  “Any ammunition?” Herschel asked.

  “He must have a .50-caliber Sharp rifle. He bought ammo for it anyway.”

  “That’s not good for you,” Rhine said with a frown at Herschel. “He’s got a long-range gun.”

  “Some .45 ammo, too,” Blaine said.

  “Sounds like they’re well armed and ready to hide out,” Herschel said, and dropped his chin. “Any chance that any of the other store workers saw any other men?”

  “Billy Gates loaded it out. I’ll go ask him.”

  “Bring him in here,” Rhine said. “Baker wants these men. He’s rode all the way down here, he’s serious.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blaine hurried off to find the worker.

  “I can get us some coffee or whiskey,” Rhine said.

  “Coffee will be fine.”

  “I’ll get us two cups while he’s finding Billy.”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  Rhine left him to study the ten-point elk head mounted on the wall, the mule deer horns, and the ram horns of a mountain sheep with a three-quarter curl. The former army officer had collected some great trophies. If he’d ever shot anything, it was for meat, so he could eat it and never worry about how fancy it would look on the wall.

  “Billy, this is Sheriff Baker. Tell him what the men looked like bought those supplies I mentioned.” Blaine indicated for the boy to speak.

  The pimple-faced youth nodded and shook Herschel’s hand. “All three were dressed pretty much for the cold. All bundled up so I couldn’t see much. I’d say they were in their early twenties. One called the other Grayson and they called the fella ordered the stuff the Old Man. They had the five packhorses loaded when they left.”

  “They had five packhorses?” Herschel asked.

  “Yeah, three were stout enough paint horses they must have bought off Indians, but the other two were half draft horse and big—ah, red roan color. Their saddle horses were all brown or bays. I wondered about them paints. Most of those kind of fellas ride and lead horses kind of match the land—I mean, don’t stick out. You could see them paints a mile or more away.”

  “Were the paint horses bearing trunks?”

  “Yeah, that’s all. One on each side, but I could tell they had all that they could haul. I could tell they were heavy loads by the way those horses left tracks.”

  “Them trunks full of these coins?” Rhine asked, setting down the two coffees.

  Herschel thanked Billy, and when the youth left, he told Rhine that they were full.

  “Holy shit. That means they have thousands of dollars in gold?”

  Yes, and they had a week’s jump on him.

  SEVEN

  CLOUDS were gathering from off the Texas coast. The wind had a sting to it, but Wulf knew that after church, the threat would not diminish the crowd headed out the Buckhorn Road for Buck Blair’s place. Buggies, buckboards, wagons, horses, and even riding burros, the one-lane road choked with folks coming out there for the competition. Dust would be boiling up higher than the trees.

  Folks around Mason, like most frontier towns, were starved for entertainment. And good stock dogs were a part of their life in the hill country. Such gatherings combined business and pleasure as well as a chance for the women to gossip.

  Wulf sat chewing on a stem of grass on the sunny side of the slope, with Ranger lying close by and Calico chomping off the dried bunchgrass. Considering all that had happened in his life over the past few months, he felt down at the heels. Living off his friends Andy and Myrna, facing a court trial for attempted murder, and that damn Hughes in charge of his ranch. He closed his eyes and prayed for something good to happen to him.

  It did. She came with a small picnic basket on one arm and a tablecloth as well. In a fresh-looking dress, Dulchy came up the cow path and smiled at him. “I brought you some lunch. They said you were up here.”

  He struggled to his feet and brushed off the seat of his old overalls. “Why—why—”

  Her hand on his chest, she pushed him down. “Sit. We are going to eat before you win today.”

  “You know?”

  “Everyone in this county knows about you and your stock dog.”

  He smiled. He sure liked how she said joo instead of you. Her accent made her even more precious.

  “Spread out the cloth,” she said, handing it to him. “I looked all over down there for you.”

  “If I’d known you were coming—I’d’ve met you.”

  “I know that you have lots on your mind. But I also know that you have to eat as well.”

  He reached over and caught her wrist. “Why are you doing this for me? I am a criminal in some people’s eyes. I’m nobody. There are a dozen rich German farm boys who would sweep you up in a snap of my fingers.”

  She wet her lips. “Maybe I don’t want a rich German farm boy.”

  “Look how I’m dressed. No shoes. A suspender button gone. Dulchy, does your mother know you’re feeding me?” He looked around, but they were far enough from the ra
nch headquarters that no one was looking at them.

  “My mother and father are dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “But my Aunt Frieda said she thought it would be all right.”

  “She your guardian?”

  “I am nineteen.”

  “Oh—” He swiped his hat off and then combed his fingers through his too long hair. Could he possibly say or do anything else to chase her away? “I’m sorry. I’m upset today.”

  “This competition you entered in makes you nervous?”

  “No. My stepfather has taken over a ranch that my father left to me. Twice he beat me, once with reins and then with a quirt. I was not taking another of those beatings. The other night he started for me, and I beat him with a singletree to stop him. He has me up for attempted murder. I stand trial next week. So what do you see in me?”

  “I see the bravest man in the world. When everyone was frozen in place, you stepped right in and shot that rabid dog. You saved that woman and her child from a horrible death. And I watched you do that.”

  His felt his face turn bright red and he shook his head. “That was nothing.”

  “We better eat our lunch. They will start soon. I have potato salad and ham sandwiches on rye. I hope you like rye bread.”

  “Dulchy, I love rye bread.”

  She looked a little taken aback by his words, but he sat up and moved closer to her. She handed him the sandwich, and then set a mason jar with something yellow in it beside him. “That’s lemonade.”

  “You’re spoiling me real bad.” He looked over at her before he took a bite of the sandwich. He was short of breath and every nerve in his body tingled, until he worried he might start shaking.

  “Good,” she said, dishing out some of the salad on a plate and adding a fork to it.

  “Put it down and you eat,” he insisted.

  “You are the one to eat. I have all day to eat.”

  “Dulchy, you may be betting on the wrong horse.”

  She shook her head to dismiss his words. “You only are upset today. When you win, I want to celebrate with you.”

  “What if I don’t? What if Ranger can’t manage these goats?”