Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  But aside from some sweat on his shoulders, the horse seemed still full of fire and certainly not winded. Better broke, Bay would suit Wulf’s needs. He headed him for the Three Crosses. Over the months he’d been gone, he’d thought lots about the home place.

  Maybe ride up on Stoner Creek, a quiet place where he and his dad had shot a mountain lion that was getting their colts. He arrived in the great swale of grass lined by hills clad with red cedar and live oak. There were a few cows and calves who lifted their faces up when he headed for the sycamores and cottonwoods along the creek.

  A good drink of that clear water would suit him fine. Wulf was on his belly, and Bay was slurping up his share as well, when the horse threw his head up and bolted backward. Wulf scrambled to his feet, looking up at the barrel of Kent Hughes’s Winchester.

  How had this happened? Was he so intent on his new horse and the homecoming that he hadn’t seen Hughes slip up? It damn sure made for a tight place to be—him and his stepfather and Hughes in charge with his .44/40.

  Hughes undid his lariat. “Here, put this around you.”

  Wulf had no idea of Hughes’s plans, but he wanted no part of a lariat around his body. He hadn’t worn his six-gun on purpose, figuring that he might lose it in the struggle with Bay. He could damn sure regret that mistake.

  “You have only a few seconds or I’ll shoot that bay horse.” Hughes had the rifle aimed at Bay.

  Whatever Hughes’s plans were for him, he’d eventually find a way out. No need to get Bay killed. He picked up the lariat and settled the rope around his chest.

  The pleased look on Hughes’s face told him things were going to get rough for him. He’d seen that manic look before in the barn when Hughes had used that girth on him.

  Hughes slid the rifle in the scabbard. “You want this gawdamn ranch so bad, I’m going to feed it to you.”

  Wulf barely managed to grasp the rope in both hands before he was jerked off his feet.

  “Folks are going to think your crazy horse there drug you to death.” Hughes, spurring his horse, headed out, dragging Wulf though the rocks, grass, and stiff brambles.

  Wulf’s entire life went before his hard-shut eyes. Life as a boy before his dad took sick. Brush rushed by, tearing at him; cactus pads slapped him. His vest was torn open, and he could be grateful that his chaps were protecting his legs, though until he was flipped over, they had plowed up lots of dirt.

  “How do you like it? Your ranch, huh? Well, eat some more. Hee-yah, horse.”

  Wulf’s world was filled with pain and even with his mouth shut, he still must have eaten a ton of dirt. And the dragging continued, with Hughes’s lathered horse beginning to show the wear and tear as well. Then Hughes’s horse stopped and balked to empty his bowels. None of Hughes’s efforts or cursing untracked him.

  Numb, dumb, and blinded by the grit, Wulf scrambled to his feet, shed the lariat, and swinging it like a jump rope, made three quick hitches around Hughes’s horse’s high tail. Then Wulf set back on it and the horse screamed.

  The horse dove into the sky, and in three jumps had shot Hughes out of the saddle and into a bed of prickly pear. When the man did not move or come out of the cactus ring, Wulf hoped he’d broken his neck, and staggered to find Bay. He could hardly see anything, but in the dying light found his horse grazing.

  It was not easy to convince Bay that this two-legged being with clothes shredded and dirt clinging was himself, but at last he managed, and rode for Mason.

  No telling about Hughes. Wulf hadn’t even heard a moan from him after he’d landed in the prickly pear garden.

  Damn, what a day. He clung to the saddle horn and made Bay lope, hoping that he didn’t fall out of the saddle.

  TWENTY-NINE

  WHAT in the hell got hold of you, boy?” It was Jim Backus’s voice running alongside him. Four men were bearing him on a stretcher and they were in a hurry.

  “I had a run-in ...” The lights went out again.

  When he came to again, he was looking up into the eyes of Andy, Myrna, Bob, Aunt Frieda, and Doc. It was daylight, and he hurt so many places he couldn’t have listed them in two hours.

  “How you doing?” Doc asked.

  His own rusty voice shocked him when he began to speak. “I reckon I’m alive.”

  “Who did this to you?” Bob asked, looking as angry as Wulf had ever seen him.

  Wolf tried to laugh. “Who else? Kent Hughes said I loved the place so bad, he’d show it to me facedown, then make it look like Bay, my new horse, had drug me to death.”

  “You kill him?”

  “Not with my bare hands. His horse got lathered up, and I took the chance to shed the lariat, and then like a jump rope, I wound the rope around that horse’s tail three times. He left out walking on the clouds, threw Hughes into a pear patch. He never got up. I couldn’t of cared less—I got on Bay and guess I rode into town.”

  “I seen men been in fights with bobcats before that didn’t look this torn up,” Doc said, shaking his head, “but I reckon you’ll heal. You’re damn sure tough enough to.”

  “I’m filing attempted murder charges against Hughes,” Bob said. “This was the final straw.”

  Andy and Myrna agreed. Then Aunt Frieda stepped forward and smiled at Wulf.

  “She wanted you to have this for good luck.”

  It was a gold cross on a gold chain. He accepted it in his bandaged hands. “Thanks.”

  “I know how much you miss her, but she is at peace.”

  “I understand, Frieda.”

  “Good. I am so sorry about this. But you will be well soon. I will pray for you. Come by and have pastries and tea with me.” Unable to hold back her tears, she backed out clutching a handkerchief. Myrna went to comfort her.

  “I will ...” And his world went black again.

  Two days of laudanum to stop his pain, and Wulf emerged into the bright world of sun streaming into his room at Doc’s office. His head hurt and he felt like shit. Maybe he had died and gone to hell and they’d rejected him. Whew, this was bad.

  “How are you today, Mr. Baker?”

  She must have been six feet tall, square-shouldered, and looked long in the tooth. Her gray hair was bound in a white scarf, and in her starched white dress she looked very official.

  “My name is Gladys Morningstar. I am Dr. Martin’s nurse and I have been taking caring of you.”

  Holy cow, that woman had been—whew. Good thing he was coming around. His face felt beet red.

  “No need to be concerned. I take care of all his patients. If you like and if you feel strong enough, I can bring you a sponge and some warm water to bathe with.”

  “I can handle that now.”

  “Very good. You are really improving. They tell me that your assailant is behind bars.”

  “Oh, he’s alive?”

  “Yes. Doc went and saw about him. He has a broken collarbone, a concussion, and, they say, numerous prickly pear spines in him: ”

  “He should have picked a better place to land.”

  “I suppose so.”

  After he bathed in his large gown, he looked around for his clothes. They were nowhere in sight. Not in the small closet or anywhere. A loud throat-clearing behind him made him turn from his search to see Miss Morningstar in the doorway.

  “My clothes?” he asked her. “I can’t find them.”

  “Mrs. Carter took them home to wash and repair them. There is a woman here to see you.”

  He frowned at her. What woman was coming to see him? He quickly got back in bed and pulled up the sheet.

  “A Mrs. Hughes, I believe.”

  His mother? “Send her in.”

  There were dark rings under her eyes. She looked very tired and very pregnant. She stood before him, chewing her lip. “I want to strike a deal, Wulf. Drop the charges against my husband and we’ll give you the Three Crosses and all the money.”

  “I understood the judge was ordering that done anyway.”

  “Wul
f,” she said, louder than she intended to, wringing her hands. “Wulf, my baby needs a father and a place to live. He or she’ll be your half brother or sister.”

  That was why she hadn’t dared go against Hughes when he’d whipped him. It was the baby inside her. But still, she’d never trusted Wulf enough to take care of her. He would have. He’d’ve done anything for her. They’d made it without Hughes before. Damn, this was tough.

  “All right. I’ll tell Bob to drop the charges when the deal is completed.”

  “Oh, thank you. Oh, thank you. I knew you would help me—son.”

  “I’m not your son anymore, Jenny Hughes. You’re Kent Hughes’s wife. Now, I want to sleep.” He fluffed the pillow and rolled over like he was going to do that. He squeezed his eyes shut hard and choked down his tears.

  Damn, life was sure a bitch.

  THIRTY

  THE Texas summer sun blazed down on Wulf in the corral. He was working the matching gray pair of mares in the corral. Prettiest set of matched ponies he’d ever seen. He’d paid a good price for them, but they were fast learning his commands and were sound as a silver dollar. In the morning, he’d hitch them up to his buckboard and drive them into Mason.

  “I think, Senõr, that they are the best caballos in the Texas,” said the short Mexican Raul, whom he had hired to look after things around the ranch. Dressed in leather despite the day’s heat and wearing a great straw sombrero, Raul was a good cowman and horse trainer himself. Raul and his wife, plus four children, had come from Chihuahua to work for him.

  Wulf gave a whistle, and the red and white collie shot into the corral and on a nod, ran over and leaped on the near horse’s back to ride around the pen.

  “All right, off, Red Man.” The collie bailed to the ground and came to sit beside him.

  “Where did you find a red one?” Raul asked. “It is such a rare color.”

  Wulf agreed with a grin. “He cost too much dinero.”

  “Ah, but he is one in a thousand, no?”

  “Yes. And they say the red ones are the smartest ones.”

  “Where are you going with him and these horses?”

  “I have challenged a man called the Colonel, who says he has the best dogs in the world, to a match in Fort Worth.”

  Raul laughed. “There is no better dog that I ever see in my life than Red Man.”

  “We will see. Last time, the Colonel conceded the match and my stepfather sold him that dog.”

  “Oh, my. Does he still have your dog?”

  “I don’t know, but he can’t get the work I got out of him.”

  “When is this match?”

  “In three weeks.”

  “Then you plan to make a trip?”

  “Sí. I want to find a new ranch—somewhere. I want you and your family to come with me.”

  “Where will it be?”

  “In a place where the grass grows tall and the water is sweet.”

  Raul smiled. “I will go where you go, Señor.”

  “Good. Someday we will have a ranchogrande.”

  “Ah, sí, a grand place.”

  “Put the horses up. I need to write a letter to my cousin and mail it when I go to town tomorrow.”

  “No problema.” Raul took over the grays.

  With pen and ink, he began his letter.

  Dear Marsha, Herschel, and all the fine ladies of Montana,

  I am going to Fort Worth next week to compete against the man who bought my horse and dog after the competition that he conceded. Things are fine at the ranch, but win or lose, after the event I am going looking for a new ranch. This one holds too many sad memories. I hope all is going well in Montana. Thanks for the money for the horses. I wasn’t seeing when I could get back up there to get them.

  I’ll write you after the competition and if I find anything.

  Your cousin,

  Wulf Baker

  A wall tent, cots, blankets, cooking gear, food—his buckboard was loaded down when he left a week later. With Bay trotting along behind, he headed for Fort Worth.

  The summer heat had the corn leaves rustling. If the corn crop hadn’t made ears by then, it would only be poor cattle fodder. He saw fewer freighters on the road. Railroads crisscrossed the country everywhere.

  He found a small rancher on the outskirts of Fort Worth who let him camp on his place. When the tent was set up and all the things were ready, he rode into the stockyards the next day to see if the Colonel was going to show up. He left Red Man and Bay at a hitch rack and studied the large poster.

  “The Greatest Stock Dog Competition in the world,” the sign said, and signs just like it were plastered all over. “Admission one quarter.” His price had gone up.

  Wulf found a Jewish tailor whom Robert Fiest had told him to go to, and had a brown business suit made. Next, he found a boot maker, and then located a haberdashery where he bought a silver belly Boss of the Plains Stetson with a silk rim. Satisfied he’d be dressed to the nines, he rode back to camp without a soul recognizing him.

  He cooked himself supper and the rancher came by. “Yesterday, you said your name was Baker. You the Wulf Baker they’re all talking about going against Colonel Armstrong in that stock dog competition?”

  “I am, sir. Get down. I have coffee made.”

  “I will, and you can tell me how that red and white dog of yours can beat him. He’s got some real smart dogs. I’ve been to several of his shows.”

  “Red Man, go lay over there. No, farther. You watch that sun go down. Turn right. Good, you stay there.” Wulf went over and poured the man some coffee.

  “How long will he stay there?”

  “Long as I tell him to, I guess.”

  Wulf gave a short whistle and Red Man busted to get back and sit by him. “I’m going to send him after Apple, the oldest of the gray mares.

  “Red Man. Go get Apple.”

  They stood up in the twilight to watch the dog start out head-high, looking for the mare. Then, in a bound, he was off on a tear to bring her in. When she got close, Wulf raised his hand. “Up, Red Man.”

  When the collie flew up on the back of the gray and stayed there, the old man shouted, “I’ll be damned.”

  “They make a helluva good team. I hope. I’m betting five hundred bucks on it.”

  “That’s a lot of money to bet on a dog.”

  “I know, but the last time, the Colonel bowed out. I bet if he makes a big gate, he’ll do the same this time. His fancy dogs are too valuable to match up against those wild range billies.”

  “Were the folks there that day mad?”

  “No, they were so glad that we beat him, they all applauded.”

  “I bet this crowd out of Fort Worth would tar and feather him if he don’t try.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Thanks for the coffee. Where you headed next?”

  “I’m going looking for a ranch of my own.”

  “Well, good luck, young man. I hope you beat the pants off ole Armstrong.”

  He’d need lots of good luck to ever beat the Colonel at anything, but he was out to try.

  He drove up to the farm where the competition was supposed to take place Late in the afternoon on the day before. Red Man sat on the seat with him.

  “My name’s Wulf Baker. The Colonel is expecting me.”

  The tough-looking gate man scoffed at him. “So you’re the hayseed going take on the Colonel, huh?”

  “That’s me,” he said, determined that the man wouldn’t be able to raise his ire.

  “Camp anywhere you want.” The man laughed out loud. “You should have stayed on the farm, sonny boy. Colonel’s going to whip your ass tomorrow.”

  “He might.” Then he clucked to the grays, and they swung into the opening and set out for the ridge where some tall trees were silhouetted against the sky. His tent was soon up and the fire started, and then folks began to drop by when they realized that he was Wulf Baker.

  He shook lots of hands. Most wished him luck a
nd urged him to beat that snooty Colonel.

  Early the next morning, he had his horses back on the picket line. Things in his camp had been shut down, and he was now dressed in the new suit and boots. Wearing a white shirt with his dad’s neckerchief and the new Stetson, he headed for the main area where folks could sit on the hillside and watch the competition unfold.

  Armstrong’s circus wagons were lined up on the east side of the field at the base of the hill. Wulf set down his folding chair, and then took Bay aside to hobble him. He hiked over to the lemonade stand and bought himself a tall glass of the ice-cold drink. The woman in charge was in her thirties. With hard lines around her mouth and eyes, she nodded when he paid her.

  “You must be the man from Mason.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He doffed his hat to her.

  “I seed you win at that goat contest. He still ain’t got a a dog can beat you on wild goats.”

  “He has my old dog.”

  She shook her head. “Naw, he died months ago. Got so he wouldn’t eat. Him and the Colonel never hit it off. Oh, he worked, but not like he did for you. Made them mad, too. They used medicine on him even, but he wasn’t never like the dog when you had him.”

  “Is he going to use one of his fancy dogs today?”

  She glanced around. “Don’t you tell no one I said it, but he’s got a bad black-mouth cur that I figure is going to jump on and kill your dog before it all starts.”

  “I owe you, ma’am. Thanks.”

  He took a refill on his lemonade in the glass full of ice spears. Then, shifting his gun holster, he went back to his chair with Red Man at his side. Wagons and riders were streaming in the gate. If that dog tried one run at Red Man, he was a dead sumbitch.

  Seated in the chair, Wulf checked the loads in his pistol, then reholstered it. One wrong move was all it would take, and that dog would be in the ground pushing up bluebonnets come next spring.