Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “Fine, then inventory it.”

  An assistant walked in. “Mr. Bridges. There is a city policeman here wants to see Marshal Baker.”

  Bridges looked to Herschel for his approval. At last, he said, “Invite him in.”

  It was the same man that was first one upstairs after his shot.

  “This is Assistant Police Chief Woodward Hogan,” Bridges said.

  “We met a while ago.”

  Hogan hefted a heavy pillowcase partially full of coins on the counter. “We got most of them.” Then his eyes flickered in disbelief at the sight of the open chests. “Good God Almighty, man. Why, there’s a fortune in them.”

  “You didn’t do bad yourself,” Herschel said, looking inside the pillowcase.

  “Where does it all go?” Hogan asked.

  “Billings, Montana, to the rightfull owner. How many men on your force?”

  “Ah, ten as well as me and the chief.”

  “Come back tomorrow and check with Mr. Bridges. I’ll authorize him to pay every man on the force a hundred dollars each. You and the chief get two hundred apiece.”

  “That would be most generous.”

  “Buffalo Malone, the owner, will be even more pleased to have this much of his fortune back.”

  “Are you going after them?”

  Herschel shook his head. “I know where to find them. I’ll get the rest of them in due time.”

  FIFTEEN

  THE gun in Wulf’s fist spewed flame, gun smoke, and death. The man jerked himself upright, obviously hard hit, then tried to recover his aim. Wulf shot him again at point-blank range, and then dropped to his knee to try and see in the twilight where the man’s tall partner was.

  There were women screaming like murder in the house. Men cussing, and then the sounds of a horse from out front fleeing off into the night. Wulf realized, listening to the drum of hooves, that that damn Oral McKinney had gotten away.

  A woman wearing a house robe and carrying a lamp came from the house. “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am.” He punched the empties out in his hand and reloaded. As far as he was concerned, the dead man had caused his own demise and he’d shed no tears for him.

  “Who did that gawdamn Kid shoot this time?” a man shouted from the house.

  She rose slowly. “You know who he was?” she asked Wulf.

  “A damn horse thief. I’ll be getting my black horse from the pen and riding out of here.”

  “You’ve shot the Culpepper Kid.”

  “Who’d he shoot?” the man asked, hurrying down there to join them.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, looking in shock at Wulf.

  “Wulf Baker.”

  She shook her head as if to free it of something when the half-dressed man without a shirt caught her by the arm and demanded, “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Wulf Baker and he just killed the Culpepper Kid.”

  “You come looking for me, too?” Wulf asked sharply.

  The man threw his hands up and then spread them out in a defensive way. “Don’t shoot me, mister. Anyone fast enough to shoot the Kid I won’t mess with. Besides, I’m not armed.

  “What’s he want?” the man asked the woman.

  “The damn black horse the Kid stole, I guess.”

  “You’re the animal trainer, ain’t you?” the man said at his discovery. “The one sold the Injun pony and dog to the Colonel, ain’t cha?”

  “My stepfather sold those to the Colonel. Not me.” With that said, he holstered the .45, took a lead rope, and went in the pen to catch Kentucky. Speaking to him all the time, he soon led him out, mounted Goose, and started south. Any minute expecting hot lead or a knife in his back until he was far beyond seeing the lights of Kate Molloy’s place.

  He rode into the night, slept a few hours beside the road in a meadow, and then pushed on toward Mason. The only thing he couldn’t solve was how to find out who’d put the thieves up to stealing the black horse. The answer to that mystery could only come from the Kid’s partner, Oral McKinney, and he’d left with his tail feathers on fire.

  The man at the crossroads store came out with his broom when Wulf stopped to water his horses. “See you got him back all right.”

  Wulf nodded. “He’s fine.”

  “What about the rustlers?”

  “The short one’s dead, the other one run off.”

  Acting busy sweeping, the man said, “Yeah, but you got your horse back. People who ain’t been paying you respect will start from now on. You showed ’em.”

  “I guess so. See you.” He left the man leaning on the broom that he’d soon wear out.

  At midday, he arrived at the Matters place and the man came outside. “Oh, thank heavens, Wulf. You are all right. Go after a stolen horse and bring him back. That’s amazing. I’m sorry that it even happened.”

  Wulf dropped heavily off Goose and started for the barn. “He hadn’t forgot a thing I taught him.”

  “What about the rustlers?”

  “One’s dead. One ran off.”

  “Damn shame, Wulf, that you had to do that.”

  “No. It’s not, Mr. Matters. I know now when people are ready to kill you, you have do something or die.”

  “If I may ask, who was he?”

  “Called himself the Culpepper Kid.”

  Matters looked taken aback by the information. Then he nodded. “I’m glad you have your horse. Tomorrow you can start back training him.”

  “I’ll be here, sir. Tell poor Paulo thanks, too. He got us on the move in time.”

  “He’s a good old man. I’ll tell him.”

  Wulf put Kentucky in his stall and then took Goose back to Jerome’s house. The man came outside, scratching his belly. “You get your horse back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jerome put his hand on Wulf’s shoulder as he started to uncinch the rig. “I been thinking it over ever since you took him. You might need him. Two good hosses are always better than one. You’re going to Montana. That’s a long ways. A real long ways. You know, your daddy and I fought them Injuns around here together. I owed him that horse and I’m giving him to you.”

  “To train him, tell everyone. I don’t want Hughes selling Goose out from under me.”

  Jerome scratched his thin hair on top of his head. “I savvy that. Tell me what happened up there getting him back.”

  Wulf squatted down, realizing for the first time in days that he was wearing his father’s boots. He’d been so busy getting Kentucky back that he’d never noticed much except that a Colt needed to be shifted a lot to wear it. He even did that without thinking much about it.

  “Well, I trailed them north out of here.” He wound it up with the Kid dead and him headed home.

  “I’m proud you have Goose. Tell Herschel Baker when you get up there, I wish him the best. Must run in the family. When we were growing up, your cousin was the toughest bronc rider I ever knew. His brother, Tom, was just as good. Those boys could have rode a snake to town. Must be in your veins.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Send us some word how you’re doing. We’d all like to hear.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “You better get along. That Dulchy’ll be getting off work soon.” Jerome gave him a big broad smile and a clap on the shoulder. “If you wasn’t going with her, why, I might even ask her out.”

  Wulf suppressed his laugh and redid the cinch. Then he vaulted in the saddle, thanked him again, and rode off on his big gray to see about Dulchy. From in front of the café, he could see her going down the side of the street a half block away, headed home. He sent Goose up to within a few feet behind her, shut him down, and swung off on to the ground.

  “Who—” Her arms open, she flew to him. He caught her and swung her around in the air.

  “You’re all right? You’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. See my new horse? And my old one is back in his stall.”

  “How wonderful. I was so wo
rried when Myrna came and told me where you had gone. But she said for me to have faith in you. I did.”

  “Let’s not talk about it. How is your aunt?”

  “Oh, she is fine, but I bet she doesn’t have any pastry made.”

  “Oh.”

  “She didn’t know that her favorite suitor was coming by. How did you get this wonderful horse?”

  “Jerome Kane loaned him to me. Then he said I’d need two horses to get to Montana.” They walked side by side with Goose trailing them to her aunt’s house. Wulf made him stay out of the yard, and closed the gate.

  “Oh, you come back,” her aunt said, and rushed out to hug him. Then she took him by the hand back into the house. “Come in. Come in. I am so glad you are all right. I have a hot apple pie I just made.”

  Wulf could smell the cinnamon and laughed. Dulchy was embarrassed by her aunt, and he tried to signal to her it was all right. Not many folks besides her aunt were that nice to him.

  That night at Andy’s kitchen table, he wrote a letter to Herschel Baker.

  Dear Herschel,

  My name is Wulf Baker. I am the son of Lonnie Baker. Lonnie died a year ago.

  My mother, Jenny Baker, remarried a man named Kent Hughes. I don’t expect you to remember me. I was a kid when you left this country, but my dad always spoke highly of you and your late brother, Tom. Your sister, Susie told me what you were doing. I decided I needed to see Montana, so I will be calling on you up there.

  Sincerely yours,

  Wulf Baker

  He handed it to Myrna to read. “I guess that’s the best I can do.”

  Under the lamplight she read it, then looked up. “I think he’ll be glad to see you. Nice job.”

  He addressed the envelope, dipping the straight pen in the inkwell, to Sheriff Herschel Baker, Billings, Montana.

  “I’ll get this mailed and my things ready. I better head that way before Hughes figures out something else.”

  Myrna stood up and hugged his head to her apron front. “Oh, be careful. It is a long ways to Montana and I will worry about you. You know you are like my son.”

  “I know. I know.”

  He felt the emptiness inside as if his own mother had died. It was that damn wall that Hughes had built between them. He had no answer to how to tear it down and go back to before. No way. Lucky he had Myrna, Andy, Dulchy, and her Aunt Frieda.

  He could be all alone.

  SIXTEEN

  HERSCHEL wired Billings to tell Marsha that in a few days he’d be heading home. His prisoner, August McCafferty, was improving from his gunshot wound, and as soon as he could travel, Herschel would be taking him back via public transportation for trial. Since Herschel had recovered two of the six trunks, he also wired to tell Malone he was having Wells Fargo deliver the two trunks to the First Bank of Montana in Billings. Another wire to the bank to have them prepared to receive the trunks since they might beat him home.

  On purpose, he neglected to say in his dispatch that according to Bridges’s bank inventory, there was over thirty-three thousand dollars in each of the two trunks. That was way too much temptation for anyone that might be listening along the singing wires.

  The day was sunny when he walked out of the telegraph office and stood on the boardwalk and looked at the street. It had gone from mushy to mud. The teams coming up Main were only hock-deep fighting the grade and poor footing. Maybe spring was coming to Deadwood. He was ready for some relief.

  “What are ya doing, Baker?” It was Deadwood’s Assistant Chief of Police Woodward Hogan.

  Herschel shrugged. “Watching the girls go by, I guess.” Referring to all the brightly dressed doves coming in small flocks up the far boardwalk.

  “Give me a few minutes of your time. Last night, a married woman of not too good a reputation was murdered in a hotel room. Her lover said he left her alive and I kinda believe him—but I ain’t sure.”

  “Anyone else been in the room since they discovered her body?”

  “I locked it and told them to keep the hell out.”

  “How was she murdered? I mean, what killed her?”

  “She was stabbed in the heart, the doc thought, by a stiletto. The person stuck it between her ribs and into her heart.”

  “That either was lucky or done by a professional. To do that is not what you’d expect from your average killer in a rage. In a rage, he would have stabbed her two-handed in the chest.”

  “That knife, of course, was not up there.” Hogan smiled. “I wasn’t sure about anything in this case, but you just brought up something never entered my mind. It could have been a planned thing.”

  They strode into the lobby of the Killian Hotel. The clerk looked up.

  “Oh, Hogan. Her husband came by and I let him have her small valise.”

  “You did what?”

  “He said all he wanted were her private things. I felt sorry for him.”

  “How long ago?” Hogan asked.

  “Oh, thirty minutes. He was on his break from the Four Deuces, where he deals.”

  Hogan turned to Herschel. “What do you think?”

  “You look through her bag?”

  “To be honest, no. I didn’t see how it could help me anyway.” Hogan shrugged. “I may have been wrong.”

  “We better go see about why her husband would have needed it.”

  “His name is Norman Felts. A dealer. We have no charges on him. He and her came here from Denver. His late wife, Marie, was a looker. Might have been a high-priced dove in her past. He dealt the house cards while she laid on her back with men who were, shall I say, well to do.”

  Things were in a midday slump when they walked in to the Four Deuces. A man with gray temples stood behind an empty table.

  “Did—did you find her killer?” the man asked.

  “No,” Hogan said. “I’m sorry.”

  Herschel squatted down and lifted the felt cloth to see better underneath the table. He reached in and dragged the drawstring bag toward him.

  “Some woman left her purse under there,” Herschel said.

  Looking a little shocked and also uncomfortable, the man spoke out sharply. “It belonged to my wife. Give it back to me.”

  Herschel shook his head and watched him for his reactions. “Heavy as it is, it may have a weapon inside of it.”

  Then he spilled the contents on the gaming table, and the last thing to fall out was a thin long-bladed knife. He’d hidden the murder weapon in her purse, of all places, and they’d have probably missed it if Felts hadn’t gone back for it.

  “Hogan, there is your murder weapon.” Herschel looked the killer square in the eyes. “Why did you kill her?”

  “That cheating bitch was holding out money on me.”

  “What for? To run away from you?”

  “The bitch—”

  Hogan stepped in with his handcuffs. “I am arresting you, Felts, for the murder of your wife, Marie. Baker, don’t leave too quick. I can use your help around here more often.”

  Herschel laughed, picking up the contents and replacing them in the bag. “My wife would kill me if I don’t get back to Montana.”

  Lord, he’d be glad to be back home—eating her cooking and listening to his stepdaughters. It would sure beat the tinny sound of pianos and music makers up and down Deadwood’s main street.

  He still had to get the other two robbers and the rest of the loot. If he let their trail cool, they might think he had given up on them and ease up on their place in Nebraska. He hoped so.

  SEVENTEEN

  DULCHY stood back and watched Wulf finish shoeing Goose. When he dropped the last hoof and straightened up, he smiled at her. “I’m glad that’s over,” he said.

  “I bet you are. In the morning you leave?” She chewed on her lower lip.

  “That’s right. And I’ll write to you and when I can—well—when I can find us something we can live on, then I’ll send you the money to come and join me, or I’ll come back here and get you.”

>   “I can wait. But I want you to hurry, too.”

  He agreed as he washed his arms and hands in the basin beside the water barrel. With the soap lathered on them, they looked like they were snowbound. He wondered how spring was coming up in the north country. It was warming up in the hill country of Texas. It would soon be bluebonnet time.

  “Do you think Montana is all mountains?” she asked.

  “Dulchy, I have no answer. They took lots of cattle up there and said it was great grass country. I’ll write and tell you all I see.”

  She hugged his arm. “Oh, I’ll be glad when we’re back together again—you with me.”

  “So will I. So will I.” He grabbed Goose’s lead, took him out back, and put him in the pen with Kentucky.

  “Aunt Frieda has made some pastries. We better go see her.”

  “Lead the way. I’m coming.”

  In a while, with a deep pain in his heart, he finally left Dulchy with a kiss, thanked her aunt, and hurried back to Andy’s.

  “What did Bob say about your probate case?” Andy asked as they stood around in the kitchen with Myrna hustling out supper from the oven.

  “Next Wednesday, Hughes has to bring all the records to the court. Cattle sales, the sale of Ranger and Calico, where all the money is at, and all the other business about my portion of the will. The banker, Hugh Berry, will be there as well.”

  Andy nodded. “Good, sounds like he’s getting the job done.”

  Wulf nodded. “He told me not to hold my breath—these things can be long and drawn out.”

  “If anything else needs done, I’ll do it until you get back.”

  “Andy, I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

  “We love you,” Myrna said, going past him with a bubbling pot roast.

  “I love both of you, too.”

  Morning came, and the horses were saddled. He had the packs and bedroll on Goose. Kentucky needed the riding. He mounted, talking easy to his black horse. The gelding shuffled around, but made no offer to buck, and Andy handed Wulf Goose’s lead.