Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “Let’s go eat. We can eat and talk at the same time,” Adams said. They went to the hotel, had a large steak and all the trimmings.

  “If the killer came back here, he led back a sorry, crooked-legged mustang with a saddle. Probably a pinto,” said Wulf.

  “You see it?”

  “No, but I looked at the tracks, seen his hair on the corners of the corral, and saw his diet. Old hay.”

  “How long ago did this shooting occur?” Adams asked.

  “Four days ago, give or take one.”

  Adams clamped his mouth in his hand and nodded. “Stovall Lane did that a few days ago. Led a pinto Injun horse, about a rack of bones, into town. Let’s go look him up.”

  “Who’s he?” Wulf asked, standing up and washing down the last of his coffee before they left.

  “I got the meal,” Adams said, and they hurried out in to the cooling night air. “Ah, a worthless no-account. He’s always stealing things. Hard to catch at it.”

  “Will he talk?”

  “I figure so.”

  Keeping up with the long-legged Adams wasn’t a problem, but Wulf decided that when the deputy started somewhere, he really moved. They were soon at a junkyard and dogs were barking at them.

  “Who’s there?” a woman shrieked from the lighted doorway.

  “Biff Adams. Tell Lane to get out here. I want to talk to him.”

  “Why? He ain’t done nothing.”

  “I’ll go around back,” Wulf offered. “In case he goes out that way.”

  In a stage whisper, Adams said, “Watch the dogs. They might bite you.”

  “I can handle dogs.” He hurried through the broken-down wagons and piles of junk. When the two black dogs came for him, he hissed them away in the moonlight. They withdrew. Neither was that vicious, he decided. Satisfied he had the back door in his sight, Wulf put his hand on his gun butt. Adams and the woman were still having a verbal battle in front.

  A bare head appeared thirty feet away in the dark doorway. Wulf drew his Colt and let the man slip outside. “Hold it right there and get your hands high.”

  “Who the hell’re you?”

  For a few seconds, Wulf’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then the man threw his hands up in surrender. “Don’t shoot.”

  “He’s back here,” Wulf shouted, turning the man around and jerking a revolver out of his holster from behind. He stuck it in his waistband and headed his prisoner around the shack.

  “Well, Lane, leaving, huh?” Adams said.

  “What the hell you want me for?”

  “He wants you for murder.”

  “Huh?”

  “Murder of someone wearing Jim Robbins’ boots over in Yellowstone County.”

  “I don’t know nothing about no murder.”

  “Except you shot him and brought his pinto horse back here afterward,” Adams said.

  “I bought that horse.”

  Wulf holstered his own gun and walked behind the two down the boardwalk. He needed to learn all he could about quizzing a killer like this one.

  “Yeah, with a bullet. Where did you plant Robbins?” Adams demanded.

  “I don’t know nothing about him.”

  “Well, that horse ties you to the murder. Who was the dead man?”

  “I bought—”

  “Lane, we ain’t listening to lies all night.”

  “Oh, all right. Ernest Scranton. He was holding out on me.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred bucks or so.”

  “Money you got off Robbins?” Adams glanced back at Wulf before they crossed the empty street. Wulf agreed with a nod of approval—it was going well so far.

  “I said I never had nothing to do with him.”

  “But Scranton had lots of your money?”

  “He owed me some.”

  “So you shot him and took his horse.”

  “There was more than that.”

  “You got his gun, Wulf?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “That gun is going to point to you shooting him. The hair off the corral belongs to that pinto you stole, and your tracks all say you killed Scranton.”

  “Sumbitch had it coming.”

  “Who shot Robbins?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.” Lane stopped talking.

  With Lane locked in a jail cell, Wulf and Adams sat in the sheriff’s office, figuring out what to do next. Wulf was letting the more experienced man take the lead.

  “I’d sure like to find out what those bastards did with Robbins’ body. His wife would like to put him to rest. Besides, we’ve looked the country over. Reckon he’s at the place where Lane shot Scranton?”

  “I can go back up there and look. We didn’t see any fresh grave, but it was getting late.”

  “Hell, if you hadn’t figured out he took a pinto horse, we’d still been looking. That was good work.”

  “How we going to find out where he stashed Robbins’ body?”

  Adams looked grim. “Cut him a deal. I’ll tell him I’ll let you take him back to Yellowstone County on the next stage if he tells me where the body is. Otherwise, he can wait for the local mob to come down here and lynch him for doing it.”

  “Will that work?”

  “I’m thinking it will. He won’t want a lynch mob to drag him out of here and hang him.”

  “Sounds sensible.”

  They sauntered back to the cell where Lane lay all stretched out in the iron bunk.

  “What do you bastards want?” Lane grumbled.

  Adams hissed at him, “Come over here.”

  “What for?” Lane threw his legs off the bunk, ran his fingers through his long hair, and came over.

  “You got two choices. Tell me where Robbins’ body is at.” Adams’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If you do, I’ll let you go stand trial at Yellowstone County for Scranton’s murder. You don’t, then you can count on Robbins’ friends breaking in here and lynching you.”

  “You don’t give a man much of a choice, do you?”

  “Baker is leaving on the morning stage with or without you.”

  “I could get five for manslaughter—” Lane was thinking out loud. “All right, but this ain’t no confession. He’s buried up on Myrtle Creek—well, we dumped him in an outhouse on an old place up there.”

  Adams about melted as if he knew the very spot. “What happened to his horse?”

  “Shipped him to Alberta with a fella needed one. We got a deal?”

  Adams nodded. He started back out of the cell area, shaking his head.

  “You know that place he’s talking about?” Wulf asked as they went back in to the office.

  “Exactly. I was there. Now I know why that old outhouse stunk so bad. Damn bastards. I’ll get his remains back for his wife. She’s a good woman. I owe you one.”

  “Supper was enough. I’m kinda enjoying this law business. I came up here to see my cousin and what Montana was like. Like Texas, there’s tough people in it, but I might not mind living up here.”

  “You’re young, Wulf. So I want to warn you. Lane is an old hand at jails and incarcerations. Just remember, he tries something, kill him. He ain’t worth anyone getting hurt over.”

  Wulf agreed. He better get some sleep. It would be a long stage ride back to Billings in the morning. With his prisoner—kill him, he ain’t worth anyone getting hurt over.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  How long do you think Wulf’ll be up there?” Marsha asked. ”He’s mighty young to be going looking for a killer.”

  “Folks are old at different ages.” Herschel held the warm cup of coffee in his hands and blew on the steam. “That boy’s been pulling a load since his daddy took sick. He’s not a kid. Life cheated him out of that.”

  “How old is he?”

  “In age or experience?”

  Marsha frowned at him and rinsed off the dish in her hands. “I mean, how old?”

  “He’ll be old enough in December to take over his
father’s estate.”

  “Is that why this Hughes made it so tough on him?”

  “I think so. Hughes has been averse to work all his life. His daddy must have brought a little money to Texas, and they always had help to do everything for them. ’Course the war got everyone’s money, and folks had to start doing for themselves. No slaves and they couldn’t afford help. Hughes still had some Mexicans doing their work when I left. But he never made any cattle drives or done a lick of anything, so I think he saw a chance to get some money by marrying Wulf’s mother.”

  “And Wulf said she defends him.”

  “I know it don’t sound right, but it’s a mess obviously. And ain’t a thing I can do about it.”

  “I know. But you can usually figure out answers I can’t.” She winked at him. “Now, you two men need to stabilize Yutta’s foot so she can walk on it. Some kinda brace for it.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll start work on that.”

  “If only that poor woman could walk without sticks. You know that Wulf made her those crutches and taught her how to use them. Before then, she crawled around.”

  “He also broke three mustangs for them to ride.”

  “I know. He’s mature for his age. And that Hughes is probably lucky he is still alive. Why, I might have sent him to hell myself for what he did to that boy.”

  “Why Marsha Baker, you sound halfway mean tonight.”

  She laughed. “You know how mean I am.”

  “I’m going down to the jail and see if he mailed me a letter from Miles City today.”

  “I hope you don’t stay down there all night.”

  “No way. I’ll be right back.”

  He finished his coffee, handed her his cup. Kate was playing songs on her piano and the girls were singing along. They waved at him when he went out. A warm night for a change—spring was coming, but slowly.

  He went inside the courthouse. He could hear Billy Short laughing and Wulf’s voice—Wulf back already?

  “Well, that was a short trip,” Herschel said.

  “He brung back the killer, too,” Billy said, beaming like a cat with a new mouse in his mouth.

  “Well, who is he?”

  “Some fella named Lane,” Wulf said. “He was partners with the dead man, Scranton, who he shot. Earlier, they both killed a cattle buyer named Robbins and threw him in an old outhouse on a deserted farmstead. Lane said Scranton was holding out money on him—from the robbery, I guess.”

  “Money he never got, right?” Herschel asked.

  “Yes, that’s the money that we found in Robbins’ boots. The deputy sheriff made a deal with Lane. He wanted to know where they planted Robbins’ body so his widow could have him reburied in a cemetery. The deal was Lane could come down here and face murder charges in Yellowstone County. Up there, he faced being lynched by Robbins’ friends.”

  “So that’s settled?” asked Herschel.

  “He’s in the jail cell, Boss,” Billy said.

  “Sounds good to me. Good night, Billy. We better get home. I bet there’s a fresh pie waiting on our return.”

  “You about ready to go after those robbers in Nebraska?” Wulf asked, going out the front door of the courthouse into the gathering darkness.

  “Marsha wants us to invent something to make Yutta’s foot stiff so she can walk on it. She thinks we’re inventors.”

  Wulf scratched his ear. “Dang if I can think of anything. Straps that tie or buckle?”

  “Well, we need to do that if we can find the time before we go after the robbers.”

  “I’ll get up first thing in the morning and work on it, while I’m back to shoeing our horses.”

  They both laughed. Wulf was plumb taken up with how to make her ankle stiff enough for her to use it. There had to be a way.

  After apple pie, Wulf was in his bedroll looking at the dark ceiling of the tack room as some starlight came in the cobweb-coated window. He hoped he was carrying his part of the load around there. Suddenly, the door creaked open.

  “Don’t shoot me.” It was Mona.

  “What’s wrong?” He sat up and tried to figure out why she was there.

  “Plenty is wrong.” She wrapped the robe around herself and squatted down beside him.

  “What?”

  “You ever see I am a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. You think I am an Indian.”

  “Why, Mona, you’re—ah, a nice woman. But I have one in Texas. Her name is Dulchy and she’s waiting for me.”

  “See, you don’t even look at me.”

  “Hey, they only allow white men one wife.” He was sitting on his butt in the bedroll holding up a single finger.

  “Dumb law.”

  “But those are the rules.”

  “Other white men have wife and mistress.”

  “That’s not my way.”

  “I can see that. I am not a pretty girl.”

  “Who said that?”

  “If I was pretty, you would look at me. I see men’s eyes go after pretty women. Yours never go after me.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I will take a horse if you let me and go find a man who will look at me.”

  “Just ’ cause a man will look at you is not the answer,” he said. “It is what you see in his heart. Look in his heart, Mona.”

  “I will look in his heart. In the morning, I will be gone if I can take one of those horses you caught.”

  “Why not steal him?”

  “I will—” And she leaped upon him and forced him on his back. She began kissing him until, at last out of breath, she raised up and looked him in the eye. “You have no heart for me.”

  He clutched her shoulders and drew her to him. Then he kissed her and took her breath away. “There, my sister, ride with the wind. I have ten dollars to help you travel. May God ride with you.”

  Stunned, she rose. The money he gave her she clutched in one hand, the back of the other hand held to her mouth as if to save his kiss. She turned and rushed out of the tack room. A few minutes later, he heard her ride off, and he soon fell asleep.

  “Mona left last night,” Marsha said to him when he came inside for breakfast.

  “Yes. She told me she was leaving.”

  “Why? We tried to make her feel at home.”

  “It was me. Yes, me. She said last night that she wanted me. I told her I had Dulchy in Texas I guess I didn’t ever take her serious as a woman in my life.”

  “She had no right to expect that of you. You took on her burdens.”

  “But not her.”

  “You are very wise for your age.”

  He shrugged. “About women I am still learning.”

  “Where is Mona at?” Sarah asked. “She’s not in her bed”

  “Darling, she had to go help her own people,” Marsha said, and shared a nod with Wulf. “And as for women, Wulf, you will keep on learning the rest of your life.”

  He gathered his things for the trip. Herschel issued him a .44/40 Winchester for their odyssey. Art came by and went over things he had to do while they were gone after the McCaffertys. The prosecution of Lane would be left up to Art and the county prosecutor unless Herschel and Wulf made a fast trip back. Herschel doubted they could do that. It was a long ride up from Ogallala to the reservation, and another long ride back. Plus the train to and from Cheyenne and the stage ride to and from Billings. Art would have to handle the Lane affair. Herschel was satisfied that it would be all right. They left the next day at noon for Sheridan by coach. Saddles, rifles, bedrolls all on board.

  The next day, Herschel pointed out where his brother, Tom, was buried beside a small church on the Crow reservation. “A stampede got him. Came all this way and I lost him. We were going to build a great ranch up here. I think we would have if he’d lived.”

  The clouds threatened rain and like all Western people, they hoped it fell softly and there was lots of it. In Sheridan they were in the rain, and in Buffalo it was muddy.
The Bighorns reared high above them as they rode on south past Fetterman’s Massacre and rocked on toward Cheyenne.

  The soft spring rains were still sweeping through the country when they reached Cheyenne. There was perfume in the showers that Herschel could scent. A new smell and a promise riding it that grazing for livestock would soon burst out.

  “That should really bring up the grass.” Herschel smiled.

  “Maybe we ought to celebrate and buy a sarsaparilla,” Wulf said.

  So they had one apiece and went to find a diner. The train wasn’t coming for six hours. Not enough time to take a room, so they put off getting a room until Ogallala. Herschel was convinced they’d sleep twenty-four hours before heading out.

  But Wulf wasn’t satisfied they’d have that long. His cousin would be itching to arrest those robbers and get this business over with. Made no matter to Wulf. He was enjoying the company of a man. His father’s long illness had made Wulf a lone rider for the past three years, and getting back into the swing of things traveling with a real man was sure a good feeling. Funny how he’d never realized the things he’d missed—like the way Herschel treated him, as his equal. None of this boy business. He’d made him a deputy. Sent him off to find and bring in a killer. Wasn’t some big surprise that he’d got the killer either. Herschel had expected him to. It was the way he’d wanted things. Damn, why did his father have to die? Life didn’t deal out the best hands all the time.

  He posted Dulchy a letter from a stationery shop in Cheyenne.

  Dear Dulchy,

  I am headed with my cousin for Ogallala, Nebraska. I arrested a killer in Miles City, Montana, this week for him. I am now a deputy sheriff. We are going after some men who robbed an old buffalo hunter of his treasure chests. It is going to be spring one day soon up here. I can’t hardly wait. I about beat the robins coming north. Tell your aunt hi and I miss you.

  My best,

  Wulf

  “I guess this Dulchy is important in your life,” Herschel said.

  “She’s a mighty fine young lady. She could have anyone she wanted.” He shrugged. “I feel lucky she wants me.”

  “She don’t have bad taste.” Herschel laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, you’ve seen part of my job. You sticking around or going back to Texas?”