Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “Herschel, I’d love to have the ThreeCrosses Ranch back. I get it back, I’d have to go home. If I don’t, reckon I’d carve me a ranch out up here.”

  “What did you tell Dulchy?”

  “I told her the same thing. Texas or Montana. I’d decide after the court case.”

  Herschel nodded. “I hope you win it back.”

  They went inside the depot building and settled on a pewlike bench to wait for the eastbound. Wulf sat with his elbows on his legs. He was hoping he’d win it back, too. Only time would tell.

  They arrived in Ogallala the next morning, and left the train with saddles and gear. Herschel hired a taxi to haul them to the Grand Hotel, and inside the two-story lobby, a young man waited on them.

  Herschel took the rooms for two nights, and they sent their gear up with the bellman. Then the two of them went down the street to a café that Herschel knew. The streets were crowded with wagons and people on horseback and even on bicycles. There were folks in leather, Indians in colorful blankets, squaws carrying heavy packs that looked like they belonged on a mule.

  And perfumed hussies in low-cut dresses, walking the boardwalk, were busy hustling customers. Their bold face-to-face approaches and the rank simplicity of their language about what they wanted made Wulf’s face burn with embarrassment.

  “I hate them,” Wulf said after disengaging from one.

  “Aw, they’ve got to work, too, I reckon.” Herschel shrugged and changed the subject.

  The café was crowded. The folks inside had their own horsey odor, and the smell of food over that was even stronger. A waitress waved them over to a table where three men were leaving. In her large arms, the ample-bodied woman was gathering up all the plates and cups when they arrived.

  “I’ll mop it off when I come back. Better put your order in.”

  “What’s the best?” Herschel asked.

  “I think the beef roast, mashed taters, gravy, and some kind of vegetable are all right.”

  “Bring that and coffee, too,” Herschel said, and she gave him a girlish grin.

  Wulf was glad Herschel had the attention of this female. That business was not for him.

  “We going to sleep a few hours?” Wulf asked.

  Herschel nodded. “Maybe a month.”

  No way Wulf could contain himself from laughing. “Why, you’ll be up in a few hours ready to ride north.”

  “I’m trying to be relaxed this trip.”

  “I know.”

  “Did Mona say where she was going when she left this past week?”

  “No, sir. She said, if I won’t take her, she was going to find a man who would.”

  “Must have been hard—for you.”

  Wulf shook his head. “Women are the hardest part for me. I liked Mona. She fed them other three—they weren’t her kin. They were outcasts. She could have survived by herself, but she chose to stay and take care of them. None of them were her own people. Mona was Shoshone. Who knows what Crazy Mary is? Yutta is probably Cheyenne.”

  “It was bad?”

  “Oh, their camp was nothing but a small willow lodge covered in rotten hides. They ate what she could steal or beg off folks on the road. She must have sold her body at times to men on the road for food. I didn’t hold that against her—it was for the others she did it.”

  “You caught those mustangs?”

  “They were unbranded and bore saddle scars, so they weren’t hard to break. They’d been broke before and my horses could outrun them, they were so winter poor.”

  “And you made Yutta her crutches?”

  “Yes. I wanted her to have some pride. She drug herself all over camp on her butt. I got her up on crutches and walking.”

  Herschel closed his eyes. “You did all that for three ragged Indians.”

  “No, I did that for four human beings. You forgot the baby.”

  Herschel shook his head in weary disbelief. “Most folks would have rode off and turned their backs on them.”

  Wulf shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t. Not when I saw how bad their situation was. But have you ever slept in a pile with three women and a baby?”

  “No.”

  “Trust me, it is unnerving.”

  Their food arrived and they set in to eat.

  Herschel pointed a fork at him. “Knowing what you know now, would you do it again?”

  “Yes, sir, if I thought anyone was that bad off, I’d stop and try to help them.”

  That boy had a way about him that Herschel really liked. No matter the consequences or his own life, he’d stop and help those who were downtrodden. It took a helluva big heart to do that—must be a Baker heart.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN they stepped out of the Ogallala café into the midday sunshine, Herschel put his arm out to stop him. “Hold up. See that fella in the red plaid jacket on that mule?”

  “Yes. Who is he?”

  “Audrey Scopes. He’s wanted in Montana for stage robbery.”

  Wulf looked hard at the man with the white sideburns and the stovepipe hat. “Who’s with him?”

  “Looks like that breed and those three others coming behind him are part of his gang.”

  “What do we do next?” Wulf dried his sweaty palms on the sides of his pants.

  “Keep them in mind and we’ll move along on the boardwalk to see where they go to.”

  Wulf nodded. There goes all that extra sleep that Herschel had promised him. It was already compromised by five wanted men on horseback leading two packhorses. They looked like a tough enough outfit, the kind that bristled with weapons. Everything from tomahawks and knives to pistols. They’d never be taken without a fight. This was going to be tough going—five outlaws against two lawmen.

  The five soon rode into Fracker’s Wagon Yard. Herschel nodded. “We know now where they’ll keep their horses.”

  “They know you?” Wulf asked.

  “They might.”

  “Then seeing you might make them nervous.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I could go down there and snoop around and learn all I can about them. They damn sure don’t know me.”

  “These fellas are lots tougher than Lane, who you brought in.”

  “I saw all those weapons on them.”

  “Let’s go borrow two shotguns and get the local constable to help us.”

  “You know him?”

  “No telling. They change them regularly.”

  “Fine with me. Do it now?”

  “I like to get things over with like this.”

  “Let’s go find him then.”

  After asking around where the town law was, they found Constable William Easton in a bar drinking beer with a half-dressed doxie. He narrowed his black eyebrows at them and excused her. She left.

  “You gents need me?”

  “Easton, my name’s Baker, this is my deputy Wulf. We’re down here from Montana looking for some robbers. A few minutes ago, we saw Audrey Scopes and his gang ride into Fracker’s Wagon Yard. They are wanted in Montana for shooting a mail guard and robbing several stages. We need to borrow two shotguns, and you may come along and share in the reward.”

  “Why, he ain’t nothing but a boy,” Easton said, scoffing at Wulf.

  “When the smoke settles, we’ll see who’s got the sand in their craw.”

  “I don’t like—”

  “Easton, loan me two scatterguns and we’ll go take them ourselves.”

  “All right. All right. But these sound like tough customers.”

  “Where are the guns?”

  “We can get three out of Joe Harper’s stock. He’s across the street. I’m ready.” Easton reset the flat-brimmed black hat on his head.

  Wulf noticed Easton wore his pants tucked in his high-top boots and carried a revolver in a shoulder holster. The ivory grip showed at the edge of his lapel. A big man, well over two hundred pounds, he looked a little soft for any kind of hard work, and a bronc might dump him mighty fast. H
is remarks about Wulf being a boy had not endeared the man to Wulf either. In fact, Wulf would have been happy leaving Easton with his girlfriend in the bar.

  When Easton asked for the guns, Harper never hesitated. He drew down three spanking-new double-barrel shotguns and handed one each to Herschel and Wulf, then spilled out an open box of high brass shells on the counter. Wulf and Herschel filled their vest pockets with ammo. Easton did the same with his coat. They moved out of the store drawing some murmurs from the crowd on the sidewalk, and many curious eyes followed them down the boardwalk.

  When they drew closer to Fracker’s Yard, Easton began waving people off the street and boardwalks. The three lawmen crossed the street with the traffic stopped, and went toward the big open gates.

  “You know these men,” Easton said to Herschel. “You take the lead.”

  Wulf was trying to see everything around them, the loaded twelve-gauge in his hands. He cocked the hammers back when he was halfway across the street, fearful that his thumb might slip and accidentally fire the gun off in the dirt and warn the outlaws in the yard. It didn’t.

  “Easy, men,” Herschel said when they reached the open breach in the twelve-foot-high wooden fence walls.

  Wulf saw Scopes’s stovepipe hat on the far side of his dun horses. When Scopes discovered the lawmen coming, a wide-eyed look spread over his face.

  “Drop your gun or die!” Herschel ordered with the shotgun stock in his shoulder.

  Scopes sprawled on his belly under the horses with his gun drawn, and met a load of buckshot face-on. The duns whirled, and about ran over Easton going out the gate.

  One of the outlaws had his pistol aimed at Easton from a side door. Wulf took him out with the left barrel of his shotgun, and glanced up in time to see the breed had a knife ready to throw at them from the loft door overhead. The shotgun against his hip, he fired, and the knife fell to the ground. The hard-hit breed began screaming that he was dying and thrashing on the loft floor.

  “Over there,” Wulf said, seeing a third outlaw with his gun drawn coming through the corral. Both Herschel and Easton shot him while Wulf reloaded his own scattergun. The breech snapped shut, Wulf indicated to Herschel he would go left. Herschel agreed, and motioned he’d take the barn. Easton, who’d lost his aloof composure, was looking everywhere for another gang member and following Herschel.

  Once Wulf was around the building, he could see where the ground dropped off into a creek bed and someone hatless was running hell-bent through the brush to get away.

  “Halt!” he shouted, and the man only glanced over his shoulder. Wulf knew he’d have no chance of ever catching him on foot once he got away. He aimed high, shot, and then decided he must have hit him because the man went facedown.

  On his boot heels, he slid down the steep bank and jumped the small stream. The man was groaning when he reached him. Wulf had the shotgun ready. When he told the outlaw to roll over, he did, with a six-gun in his hand. But with the smoking muzzle of the shotgun shoved in his face, he dropped the pistol immediately.

  Looking around, Wulf saw an easier way to get up on the bluff and ordered his prisoner to go over there. “You try something, I’ve got another barrel of shot ready for you.”

  Cursing like a sea captain, the outlaw finally said, “You ain’t nothing but a damn kid.”

  “Get off the kid shit. I shot your buddy in the yellow shirt and got you. Now tell me I’m a kid and I might send you to hell right here.”

  Seated on a wooden toolbox, Easton was mopping his sweaty face with his white kerchief when Wulf and his prisoner came in the back of the barn through the walk-through doorway.

  “You get him, too, huh?”

  “He’s got some shot in his back.”

  “Doc can dig it out. These fellas were tough. I never saw the likes of them,” Easton said. “Whew, I thought we were all dead.”

  One of the outlaws sat on the ground with a bloody shoulder, his chin dropped, and shaking his head. “All I wanted was a couple of drinks.”

  “I don’t think we need to move the breed,” Herschel said, coming down from the loft on the ladder. “He’s close to dying.”

  “That’ll make three dead and two wounded,” Easton said. “Been a damn bloody afternoon. How much is the reward on them?”

  “Four at two-fifty and five on Scopes,” Herschel said.

  “How much is my part?”

  “Five hundred. That’s a three-way split.”

  “You know that’s damn near a year’s pay for being constable in this town.”

  “It’s lots of money. What’re you going to do with it?” Herschel squatted in the loose hay beside the man.

  Easton squared his shoulders and stood up at the sight of the curious townsfolk coming closer in the street outside. “I may marry that gal you saw in the bar today. I’ll need someone when I get old to care for me.” He turned back. “Wulf’s your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “What you doing with yours?”

  “I’ll ask a gal back in Texas what she wants us to do with it.”

  Easton dropped his gaze to his dust-floured black boots. “You two ever need me, you call. You are two of the coldest, toughest lawmen I ever worked with.” Then he straightened, facing all the curious onlookers pouring in to the yard. “Everyone out of this barn. Couple you boys go upstairs and get that breed. Toss Scopes’s body out there in a wheelbarrow, and take him and that other dead man down to the Black Brothers Funeral Home. Do the same with the breed. Harry, you run tell Doc to meet us at the jail. I got two needs his attention. You two get up and head for the jail.” He looked in the outlaws’ direction.

  “We’ll fill out the papers later,” Herschel said. “Wulf and me are going to sleep for a few days.”

  Wulf smiled, unloading his shotgun. They were finally going to get that rest Herschel had promised—he’d have to see how long it really lasted before he went to bragging too much.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THEY slept into the next day, woke, and dragged themselves out of bed. On the street thirty minutes later, a newsboy was hawking the daily paper on the boardwalk, shouting, “Montana lawmen shoot it out with Scopes Gang.”

  Herschel gave the boy a dime and looked at the front page. “We didn’t need this kind of story.”

  “Here’s the restaurant.” Wulf opened the door and Herschel went by him, still trying to read the front-page story.

  “What’s wrong?” Wulf asked when they finally sat down at a side table.

  “The McCaffertys get hold of this, they’ll know we’re coming. That youngest one, August, knows me well. He’s the one who escaped in the stage robbery.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I’m not certain, but it forces our hand to get on up there.”

  They ordered breakfast, though the waiter must have thought it odd so late in the day. When he left with their order, Herschel handed Wulf the paper.

  “They can’t spell my name right,” Wulf said, amused. “They have an o in it.”

  “We better get those papers filled out on those outlaws and get some horses to ride up there.”

  “How far away are they?”

  “Two days, maybe two and a half.”

  “You been there before?”

  “I’ve been up there in that country:”

  Wulf nodded. They were headed for some new territory he’d never seen. When breakfast arrived shortly after the coffee came, he was ready to eat. Last night we had a shoot-out with five outlaws, Dulchy—no, he better write her something milder than that.

  After breakfast, they went by Easton’s office and found him with his boots on his old scarred desk.

  “Morning,” he said, throwing his feet down. “I got their names and the posters and everything we need to collect those rewards ready to sign.”

  Herschel read the reward papers and handed them back. “We can sign that and get on our way. We’re going after the McCaffertys and I didn’t want all the news to leak out we were
even here. They know who I am. I had dealings with them in Deadwood about six weeks ago.”

  “Sorry. The mayor wanted you to come to supper.”

  “We’ll pass, and you thank him for us. We’re on our way right now to get some horses and ride up there.”

  The papers were signed and they were on their way. They found Ira Hansen at Swan’s Livery, and he showed them several horses he had for sale. All were common as grass. Most in thin early spring condition.

  “I got a few that are kinda tough. One’s a big roan. He threw the last fella off in the street twice. I got him back, but if—”

  “Where are they at?”

  Ira grinned. “Right back here.”

  The dusty-looking red roan had small pig eyes, and Wulf grinned at the sight of him.

  “The other two, the sorrel and the bay, are all for sale. Fifty bucks apiece.”

  Herschel was in the pen as the three circled away from him. He flushed them, waving his arms, and they took off running. Wulf nodded his approval. They looked sound enough, but they’d sure be “haints.”

  “A hundred bucks for the pen,” Herschel said.

  “Can’t take a dime less than a hundred and a quarter.”

  “A hundred and ten.”

  “Make it a hundred and twenty and you got them. No refunds, though, at that price.”

  “Deal. Our saddles are at the hotel. We’ll be right back.”

  Ira nodded. “I want to see this.”

  “It won’t be the show you expect,” Herschel said, and they hurried after their things. In less than thirty minutes, they’d snubbed the horses down and saddled them. First, they put the packsaddle they bought from Ira on the bay, and hung the horse’s left rear hoof off the ground, tied to the cross bucks, so all he could do was hobble around. Next, they roped the sorrel, who had a head-slinging fit. Wulf soon had him eared down and slipped his bits in his mouth. The red horse still had lots of white showing around his eyes when Wulf tossed his saddle blankets on him. More scared than anything else, he dropped down like he intended to spring high as the moon when Wulf applied the saddle, talking all the while. When he’d cinched up, Wulf stepped aboard him before the horse realized that was his intention.