Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “All I ever got out of that Kansas sand was gritty teeth,” a captain said.

  “Two arrows in my back,” another said.

  “Can we go look at this booty?” a lieutenant asked.

  “Fine with me if it won’t cause a gold rush,” Herschel said.

  They laughed around the table. “It might,” one warned.

  So, after breakfast, they went to the brig and had the door unlocked by the armed guard. Wulf undid one of the trunks and when he set the lid back, the sight made them all suck in their breath.

  “How much are they worth?” one man asked.

  “Sixty to seventy thousand is my best guess in all of them.”

  “What will he do with them?”

  “I have no idea,” Herschel said.

  “My, my, you and this young man are very courageous to take this on. Where will you go next?”

  “Deadwood. We’re leaving shortly.”

  Their horses saddled and the packhorse loaded, Herschel turned to Wolf. “This law business going to suit you?”

  “Life sure ain’t real slow up here.” Wulf swung into the saddle. “No, sirree, it ain’t slow.”

  “You done any more thinking about where you’re going to settle?” Herschel asked.

  “I hope when I get back, I’ve heard from my lawyer—Bob is a good man. I planned hard all my life to take over the Three Crosses. I grew up thinking it would be mine someday and I could ranch and train animals. I haven’t done much of that lately, but I think I could go back and pick it up. Haven’t had the chance lately.”

  “I savvy that with all that you lost. Let me tell you, I hate this country north to the Black Hills. Don’t know why. It’s just vacant land, but we can be in Deadwood in three days or so. I know the police in Deadwood. Grayson is there, we’ll round him up easily.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “One more thing. I’ve enjoyed every day we’ve been on this trip. You’re the least complaining person I ever met. But tell me one thing. Did Lucille really try to hoodwink you into helping her get part of that loot?”

  Wulf looked at the azure sky for help. His face felt burning red. “She about crawled in bed with me.”

  Herschel laughed. “I heard part of that row and figured that was her plan.”

  Wulf simply shook his head. “I’d take gun-slinging outlaws any day to some of these women.”

  “We won’t see much of either between here and Deadwood. Let’s ride.”

  The Black Hills looked majestic to Wulf from his first sight of them as a mountain range in the distance. From the magpies and blue jays to the soaring bald eagles, he felt he was in a new paradise of sparkling streams and towering mountains. Despite all the mining activity, he watched the silver trout darting for cover at the invading shadow of horse and rider going by. The turpentine aroma of the ponderosa pines filled the air. As he rode off into the canyons that housed Deadwood, he was surprised at all the fallen trees that choked the forests.

  “Some place,” he said, following Herschel’s roan single file around a freight wagon and eighteen oxen with a bull whacker headed up the canyon.

  “You are about to see the other side of the coin.”

  “Down there is where you shot the paint packhorse?”

  “Yes. And starving Indians butchered him in the street and ate him in short order.”

  They rode into the bustling boomtown.

  “What do all these people do for a living?” Wulf asked.

  “Everything imaginable from prostitution to pickpockets. There’s gamblers, craftsmen, bartenders, musicians, construction workers, lawyers, and bankers.”

  “But you said lots of them pan for gold in the creeks.”

  “The prospectors eke out a living doing that. Rich one day, broke the next.”

  “Where are we going to find Grayson?”

  “If he has any money left, he’ll be in one of those fancy whorehouses playing the big shot. If not, then he’ll be down with the riffraff in the heart of town in a flop-house.”

  “Where are you betting he’s at?”

  “I’m not certain. Let’s put our horses up at this livery.”

  “Fine.”

  Their horses boarded, they hiked uphill to the police station, courthouse, and jail. Assistant Chief Hogan was not in, and wouldn’t be back on duty until eight o’clock that evening. But the man behind the desk stood up and extended his hand. “You got any more gold needs tending, Marshal?”

  “No, but we’ll get a room and be back. I’m looking for a man involved in that crime.”

  “Hogan will be pleased to hear you’re back in town, I am certain, sir.”

  Outside, Herschel laughed. “I paid them well out of Buffalo Malone’s money for helping me get the first two chests.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got their attention.”

  Herschel agreed, looking around. A wild and woolly place. He could hardly wait until the railroad tracks got to Billings—his once-quiet small town would be like this mad hatter’s party.

  They ate with a Chinese cook in a small shop that reeked of Oriental spices, and then found two hotel beds with the desk clerk promising to wake them up at nine that evening. Wulf fell instantly asleep and when Herschel woke him, he thought he’d only slept for a few minutes.

  The sun was set when they climbed the hill to the courthouse. Loud barkers were hawking their base wares up and down Main Street. Flirty women in lowcut gowns were trying to intercept trade. And drunks staggered out of bars and fell facedown, to be walked around or over by the boardwalk traffic. Others, rolling their tongues around words that made little sense, took swaying walks downhill through the oncoming foot traffic.

  Filthy women, sitting on their butts or knees, begged with tin cups, telling hideous stories to try and pry money out of the purses of the upright passersby. Some of the male tramps even sought discarded stogie butts and relit them for their own use.

  Hogan came out and greeted them. Then, when they were introduced, he shook Wulf’s hand like he was an equal. Made him feel very good from the start.

  “You are back so soon?” Hogan laughed and pushed the bowler back on his head, appraising them.

  “That wounded boy I started home with was liberated by some stagecoach robbers in Wyoming. He ain’t been heard of since. His father took a bullet in the arm when we tried to arrest him and is in jail in Fort Robinson. But we have all the old man’s treasure recovered for him, and Wells Fargo should have it up there shortly. The middle son, Grayson, is supposedly here in Deadwood living the good life.”

  “Any idea where?” Hogan looked from one to the other for an answer. “I wouldn’t know him.”

  “No, but I bet if he has any money left, he’s loud.”

  “Let’s ask around the saloons. He may be using another name.”

  “He might. Sounds great. Let’s check them out. You have time?”

  “I’ve got all the time you need, my friend. Let’s go look for him.”

  The night life had come alive. Wulf soon found the boardwalk crowded shoulder to shoulder, and the reek of unbathed humanity filled his nose. Most of the time, he had to go sideways through the foot traffic to keep up with Herschel and Hogan.

  Inside the saloons, the faro wheels were spinning, and Hogan would find a man or woman in charge and ask them about a Grayson McCafferty. Even when Wulf couldn’t hear the person’s reply for all the noise and music, he could tell by their faces that they didn’t know him. Then on to the next joint spilling over with hell-raisers, screaming women, and loud music. Beer sloshing out of wildly swung mugs, cigar smoke thick enough to cut and sell in cubes. It was in the House of Cards that the buxom woman nodded at Hogan’s question. She had more of her large breasts exposed in the low-cut dress than was covered. Wulf could tell by how she talked to Hogan that she knew Grayson.

  Herschel turned back and said to Wulf, “She says he’s rooming at the Palace Hotel with a female named Sugar Doll.”

  That would b
e sweet. Wulf kept his comments to himself as they moved through the tight crowd for the door again.

  Outside in the night’s cooler and clearer air, Hogan said that he thought Grayson might be dealing cards at the Whiskey Barrel. That was close to the Palace, and this Sugar Doll had been a dealer there. The mud was dry, and crossing the street proved no problem.

  “Will you recognize him?” Hogan asked Herschel before they went inside.

  Herschel said yes.

  But after a review of all the dealers around the room, he saw no one who looked like his man. Hogan talked to the boss, and came back to where the two of them stood out of the way.

  “The table boss says he’s off tonight.”

  “Should we check the hotel?” Herschel asked him.

  “Sure, we can do that.”

  The Palace was only two doors south, so they were soon in the lobby. The clerk told them Room 212, and gave Hogan the key. Wulf felt more relaxed in the quieter lobby, and followed the two men up the stairs.

  Hogan rapped on the door. “This is the police chief. Open the door.”

  A woman finally shouted, “I’m coming.”

  She opened the door, wearing next to nothing, and held it halfway shut. “What do you need, Chief Hogan?”

  “Grayson McCafferty.”

  “He’s not here—”

  Hogan had enough of her. He shoved the door open and charged into the room. There was an open window that went out on the porch, and the wind was blowing the curtains back. Herschel rushed over in time to see someone jump off.

  “Landed on a tarp over a wagon and went through it.” Herschel pointed him out to Wulf as he disappeared into a crowd in the night, then ran into a side alley.

  “He won’t get far,” Hogan promised.

  Herschel agreed, and he and Hogan thanked the woman going out. Wulf couldn’t figure out why they did that. Just sarcasm, he finally figured. They went down the stairs two at a time, crossed the street, then drew their pistols to march down the alley. No sign of Grayson.

  “Daylight, we’ll get my patrols out and find him for you,” said Hogan.

  Herschel thanked him, and he and Wulf went back to the hotel to sleep. One night down in Deadwood and their man had already escaped them. Which meant he also knew they were after him.

  “You reckon Grayson’ll take a powder tonight?” Wulf asked when they were in bed.

  “I’ve been thinking that. If he realizes we’re here after him, he might run. What do you think we ought to do?”

  “Hey, I work for you.”

  “Let’s check some livery stables.” So they dressed and separated on the street. Herschel went left and Wulf went right. The night was howling in the saloons and bars. It was beyond Wulf what all that was about. Men staggering around drunk, messing with brassy women—it all made him about nauseated.

  “Grayson McCafferty? Nope, I don’t keep his horse.” That was the answer the hostler in charge at each place gave him. They were to meet back at the lobby when they felt they’d been at every place they could find. Wulf, wondering if McCafferty even had a horse, made it back to the hotel lobby yawning his jaws off.

  Herschel got up from the chair. “He ain’t ran yet. His horse is still at Sturdivan’s.”

  “Good, maybe he figures he can hide from us here.”

  “It wasn’t a such bad idea to go check on him.”

  Wulf shook his head. “Wish I’d known it two hours ago.”

  They both laughed and stomped up to their room.

  The sun was up when they dressed again. Someone knocked on their door. It was a town policeman. He introduced himself as Mike Darby.

  “Hogan wanted you to know he has a man at the livery where your man keeps his horse watching out for him.”

  Wulf laughed and pointed at Herschel. “He was thinking last night about him running, too.”

  “Thanks,” Herschel said, shaking his head in disgust as he strapped on his gun belt.

  “We need a description of him, too,” Darby said.

  “I’ll write it out while we eat breakfast.” Herschel looked at Wulf, who quickly agreed that eating would be necessary.

  “One officer is checking the banks to see who is taking his gold coins. Hogan said he didn’t feel everyone would accept them. That’s O’Brian doing that. And Mel Thorn-ton is watching the hotel. The hotel clerk is supposed to tip him off if Grayson comes in.”

  “Ain’t much Hogan hasn’t thought about.”

  “He’s a great policeman. Knows the business,” Darby said.

  “Yes, he is,” Herschel agreed as they pushed inside a crowded diner around the corner from their hotel.

  With a table at last, Herschel wrote out some things about Grayson. Age mid-twenties. Six feet or so tall, broad shoulders, brown hair, not wearing a hat last time he saw him, and dressed in a red suit coat and pants, white shirt.

  “Bright red?”

  “It was rust color anyway.”

  “That should help,” Darby said.

  Herschel paid for the meal and they went back to the courthouse. Hogan introduced them to O’Brian. “He’s got some information.”

  “The Franklin Bank has been cashing the coins for him,” O’Brian said. “He is supposed to come by this morning and cash some more in with the head cashier.”

  “Reckon he’ll show up?” Wulf asked.

  “Yes, he’ll need money to get anywhere,” Hogan said. “He might send the woman, but he’s not leaving here without it. Erskine, the president of the bank, thinks he has it in a safe-deposit box for safekeeping.”

  “We need to get over there?” Herschel asked.

  “Yes, but go in the rear door and you can sit in the president’s office out of sight,” O’Brian said.

  “Rear door?” Herschel asked.

  “Yes, knock three times and they’ll let you in,” O’Brian explained.

  “I’m sending Darby along,” Hogan said. “Good luck.”

  Herschel thanked them and shook Hogan’s and O’Brian’s hands. Wulf did the same, then hurried to catch up with Herschel and Darby.

  A bank employee answered their knock, led them in to the room with the fancy lamp overhead. They took the chairs set up in the president’s plush office and waited.

  A straight-backed woman served them hot coffee and pastries. She also told them in a low voice, as if someone might hear her, that here was no sign of McCafferty yet.

  Wulf’s stomach told him it was lunchtime when a man opened the door and whispered, “He and she are both here. They’re getting their gold out of the lockbox.”

  Darby thanked him. Then the president, Mr. Erskine, came in to the room. “They will soon be in the room next door. That door is unlocked.” He indicated the one with the frosted glass.

  They thanked him.

  Wulf heard a man’s gruff voice saying, “Put it down.” They drew their sidearms, and Wulf put his hand on the doorknob.

  When he opened it, Darby went in to the room with his gun cocked, followed by Herschel.

  “Hands up. Don’t try anything. You are under arrest.”

  “Huh?”

  Grayson looked like a cornered wolf. But he raised his hands. Darby swept the woman’s purse away without a word. Wulf noted that, and knew he had to do the same in such circumstances—she easily could have a gun in it. Both were lined up against the wall. Herschel frisked Grayson and found a derringer in his coat pocket.

  The woman fussed about Darby frisking her. But he ignored her complaints.

  Then, with each in hand irons, they were made to sit down.

  “Is this all the gold money you have?” Herschel indicated the coins on the table.

  Grayson didn’t answer. Herschel turned to the woman. “I am sure we have a room for an accomplice in Montana Prison for you, too.”

  “That’s all that’s in the lockbox. I don’t know anything about this damn gold,” she snarled.

  “That’s it.” Grayson looked disgusted, and clanged his cuffed wris
ts together on the tabletop folding his hands.

  “Your father is in the Fort Robinson jail mending from a gunshot wound. Where’s Auggie?”

  “You ought to know. You took him.”

  “No, some stagecoach bandits took him away from me over by Sundance.”

  Grayson shook his head in disgust.

  “Oh, Wells Fargo is returning those four trunks to Buffalo Malone,” Herschel said.

  “That old bastard—”

  “I’m sure he has the same to say about you. Darby, lock them up for me,” Herschel said. “We need to go to the telegraph office and send word home that we’re still alive.”

  “What about me?”

  “Why, Sugar, prison won’t be so bad in the springtime in Montana,” Herschel said. Let her think about it a while in jail. She might remember more gold that he or she had stashed somewhere.

  “Damn you!” she swore.

  “Get moving,” Darby said. “They’ll be waiting for you, Marshal.”

  When they were gone, the straight-backwed woman brought them steaming coffee. Herschel had the clerk count the coins and convert them to actual cash.

  “You really taking her back to Montana?” Wulf asked.

  “No, but it might sharpen her memory of where more gold is at.”

  “I’d not thought of that.”

  “I don’t owe her anything. She’s only with him ‘cause he has this loot. He was broke, she’d’ve dropped him like a hot potato.”

  The clerk came up with 1830 dollars.

  “Check that safe-deposit box and write me a receipt for that much money.”

  “Lots of money,” Wulf said, thinking out loud when they left the bank.

  “Lots. I can’t figure what it was doing out in a sand pile in Kansas.”

  “Guess that answer we won’t ever know.” Wulf shook his head. If folks knew the exact place where Buffalo found it, why, there would be a bunch there overnight to dig up the whole western half of the state.

  They entered the telegraph office and went up to the desk.

  “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker—”