The Range Wolf (22 page)

After that we were on the Hallelujah Trail to Fort Concho—or so the drovers thought.

But for Flaxen and me it would be the end of the trail. The end of this trail—and the beginning of a new one. That's where the two of us would bid
adiós
to Wolf Riker.

From Fort Concho there had to be a safer passage West, and Flaxen and I would book that passage.

After Wolf Riker's surprise speech, and Cookie's ordeal, there was almost an air of celebration along the way.

Picard, Flaxen, and I told Simpson that Riker had pardoned him from execution by hanging. He understood what we said, but reacted as if he had something else in mind. And as Riker predicted, soon after Dr. Picard's ministering to the cuts and bruises, Cookie was back among his pots and pans again. During the interim, Morales One and Morales Two filled in with an assist from me, and the cuisine was much improved.

The drovers, anxious to get to Fort Concho, drove the herd and themselves hard. At the end of each day men and animals were near exhaustion. But there were no complaints—not from the men.

On a couple of occasions there were even songs around the campfire—Lorena, Shenandoah, Bringing in the Sheaves—and Morales One and Two serenaded the moon in Spanish.

One night Wolf Riker invited me into his wagon for a cigar and brandy. When I entered he was going over his maps and looked up with a contented smile.

“Well, Mr. Guthrie, tomorrow or the next day we should be within sight of Fort Concho.”

“Have you been there before?”

“No,” he said, “but I know a little something about it. Years ago, to protect the wagon trains and stagecoaches moving West, the government set up army posts in the territory, but those outposts fell like a dark shadow over the Indian way of life. When the war broke out the Union Army needed all the manpower it could get, especially if that manpower had already been exposed to the ways of war. Much of that manpower was in the West. Some of the forts were abandoned. Others had to make do with reduced ranks. One of those was Fort Concho. All I know is that it's still there among the Kiowas, Comanches, Cheyenne, Cherokees, and a whole lot of other tribes—some of them sided with the Union and some with us. At any rate, I've got a deal to provide the army with beeves. We'll find out more when we get there.”

 

 

And we did, much more.

 

 

From a distance it looked tiny—almost like a toy—anchored in a sea of sand.

And even closer it was still small—too small, it seemed, to make much difference in such a vast expanse.

We could sense that there was something wrong.

An unreal quietness.

No guard was posted. No colors flew from the staff. The gates were open, but nothing stirred. No living sound came from within.

And an uneasy quiet fell over all of us until Wolf Riker barked his commands.

Leach and Smoke were to stay outside with the herd.

The rest of us, including the wagons, were to follow Riker through the gates and into the fort.

Once inside it didn't take long to realize our worst fears.

Fort Concho had been attacked and wiped out.

In the center of the compound the ashes and remains of a huge pyre—a crematorium for the dead and wounded—from which came the odor of burnt flesh and bones—the smell of death.

Even those who had been battle hardened during the war had never seen anything to compare to the sickening sight and smell within the walls of Fort Concho.

We were stunned into silence—for how long I'm not sure—but only until that silence was ruptured by gunshots.

They were at the gates—then inside the gates.

Indians. Some with rifles, others with lances, bows, and arrows.

How many, it was hard to tell. But too many.

And with them Leach and Smoke, bound by leather thongs and with blood leaking from a wound at Leach's head.

Carrying a coupe stick, the Chief was on the biggest horse, a piebald. His age, indeterminate, but he was no longer a young man. His eyes, two hard, narrow streaks. His face, worn, dark, and broad.

Next to the Chief, a younger warrior, the Goliath of the tribe, bigger even than Wolf Riker, with mounds of muscle bulging from his bare chest and arms. And on another mount, an Indian with a bullet-torn, and bleeding shoulder. The Chief spoke.

“I am Satanta.”

“And I'm Wolf Riker.” He stepped forward. “I know of Satanta, who was once called The Great Orator of the Plains”—Riker pointed to the pyre—“. . . and now butchers and burns instead of speaking words of wisdom for his people.”

Satanta's gaze went to the pyre and then to Riker.

Satanta dismounted, so did some of the other warriors, including the giant. Satanta took a step forward carrying the coupe stick in his left hand.

“You are called Wolf?”

“That's right, Wolf Riker.”

“Wolf Riker, like other white men, you are quick to condemn . . .”

“So were you when you butchered and burned the . . .”

“No!”

“No, what?” Riker pointed at the pyre again. “There's the proof.”

“That is not the act of the Kiowa. That is not why we came here.”

For once I saw the look of puzzlement in Wolf Riker's face. He scanned the ground and picked up an arrow. He held it up toward Satanta.

“What's this?”

“Again, you are quick to condemn.”

Riker walked away from Satanta, close to Smoke, and raised the arrow near the black man's face.

It didn't take Smoke long.

“Cheyenne.”

Riker moved back to Satanta, broke the arrow in half and dropped the two pieces to the ground.

“I haven't said this many times before, but I say it now so everybody can hear. I was wrong, Satanta—and I'm sorry I spoke as I did.”

Satanta said nothing.

Riker looked at Leach, then at the wounded Indian.

“What happened out there? The shots?”

Satanta pointed to the muscular red man.

“Iron Hand will tell you, his brother . . .”

“I'd rather hear it from him,” Riker pointed to Smoke.

“As you wish,” Satanta replied, “for now.”

Smoke, still bound, took a step forward.

“Leach and I were talking, speculating about the fort. All of a sudden we were surrounded—Indians pointing guns at us. I guess Leach lost his head, drew and fired, hit one of them. I tried to stop him, but too late. They jumped us, bashed Leach's head—and here we are.”

Riker looked at Leach, who, still dazed and bleeding, bowed his bashed head.

“Once again, Satanta, I have to say it. I was wrong and I'm sorry.”

But Satanta was now looking at Riker's midsection, at the CSA buckle on Riker's belt.

“You fought against the Blue Coats.”

“That's right, Satanta, during the war you and I fought on the same side.”

“But for different reasons.”

“Maybe not so different. But then, why
did
you come to Fort Concho?”

“We were promised beef. Food for our people.”

Iron Hand stepped forward, pointed at Leach, then turned to Satanta and spoke in the Kiowa language.

As he spoke I noticed that the expression on Smoke's face became grim.

When Iron Hand finished, Wolf Riker started to say something.

“Satanta, you know that we have many . . .”

But Satanta held up the coupe stick.

“There is something that must be done. It is Kiowa law.”

“What is?”

“Iron Hand's brother, Running Bear, is wounded and could have been killed by . . .”

“We have a doctor,” Riker said, and pointed at Picard. “He has medicine. He will . . .”

“We have our own doctor and our own medicine, but Iron Hand demands the Blood Rite, to fight and kill the one who did this. It is Kiowa Law.”

Wolf Riker laughed. The rest of us didn't. Then Riker spoke, and once again we were surprised at what he had to say.

“He will fight a small, wounded man half his size because of his brother? That small, wounded man is
my
brother. Let him fight and kill me if he has the courage.”

And without warning, in a whip-like motion, Wolf Riker slapped the face of Iron Hand hard, back and forth.

Iron Hand had no choice.

And neither did Wolf Riker, once the Blood Rite was explained to him.

Riker and Iron Hand would be tied left wrist to left wrist by a leather thong six feet long. Satanta would throw a razor sharp knife into a wall twenty feet away. The two would start a no-holds-barred run to get the knife and plunge it into the other's heart.

Satanta's arm arched back and came forward in a single, swift motion. The knife flew fast and sure, stuck into the wall and quivered.

Riker and Iron Hand ran toward the knife, Iron Hand a couple of paces ahead until Riker stopped, braced himself and jerked back with all his strength against the thong and Iron Hand, who was halted abruptly. But Iron Hand looped the thong. It circled Riker's neck. They both spilled to the ground, twisted over each other's body. Riker's elbow exploded into the Indian's face, stunning him. Riker freed his neck from the encircling thong.

But the red man's right hand secured the knife. Iron Hand lunged—Riker sidestepped and hammered his fist into Iron Hand's jaw.

Riker crashed into him. Both men fell to the ground. Riker grabbed the knife hand with his left and smashed the Indian with the other. Still Iron Hand raised the knife and plunged it down.

Riker moved just in time and the knife was buried almost to the hilt in the ground next to Riker's ear. In the same instant, Riker's right fist burst into Iron Hand's face, splattering bone and gristle, with blood spurting from his nose and mouth.

Riker made a tight loop around Iron Hand's neck and pulled hard, his other hand gripped the knife handle and pulled it away from the earthen sheath, then brought the blade close to the Indian's throat, slowly the deadly blade came ever closer. The red man's eyes flashed with fear and frenzy. The veins in his neck swelled into thick, throbbing cords as he tried in vain to hold back Riker's hand. In another instant the red man would be dead—all the pent-up power in those bunched up muscles drained in defeat, rendering him defenseless. But suddenly Wolf Riker's hand holding the knife moved in another direction, with one swift stroke, cutting the thong that bound his own wrist, freeing himself and relieving the pressure from around Iron Hand's throat.

Iron Hand fell back against the ground barely conscious, but helpless, and did not move.

Riker rose to his feet—knife still in hand. He walked to Satanta, turned the handle toward the Chief and extended it.

“Satanta,” he said, “we're still on the same side. We'll cut out a hundred head of cattle to feed your people.”

Satanta took the knife and nodded.

What the hell kind of a man was Wolf Riker?

There was no way to define him.

Not from the way he responded on different occasions to the Indians—and certainly not from the way, or ways, he reigned over those of us on the drive—with absolute authority—from calculated cruelty to unexpected guardsman and defender, as was the case at Fort Concho when he risked his life on behalf of George Leach.

During that deadly encounter, all eyes had been riveted on the two gladiators, those of the Indians and certainly, those of us on the drive, including me. But I couldn't help glancing momentarily, from time to time, at the drovers, at Picard, Cookie, Pepper, and Flaxen, who was the exception, and whose eyes were averted downward so as not to witness what seemed to be the inevitable and violent death of either Iron Hand or Wolf Riker—and what might have been the end of the drive and us. As the Blood Rite began and Riker and Iron Hand ran toward the knife, Flaxen took hold of my hand and squeezed. She did not let go or stop squeezing until Riker turned the knife over to Satanta.

The truth was, no matter how anyone on the drive had felt about him, Wolf Riker was our gladiator, our champion, and none of us would have had the inclination, grit, or strength to have done what he was risking his life doing.

But afterward, when the hundred head of cattle were cut out and gifted to the Kiowas, and the drive continued, we were no longer on the Hallelujah Trail.

Luckily for us the cattle had not stampeded at the sound of the gunshots, probably because they were too tired. But the Cheyenne had left nothing at Fort Concho except cremated corpses.

We were still in short supply. The bounty that Riker had promised did not exist—no flour, sugar, beans, coffee, or something stimulating to drink, and no thousand dollar bonus to split among the drovers.

The Hallelujah Trail had become the Hell-eluiah Trail—with no end in sight.

Wolf Riker had once again become his unyielding, resolute self, with one aim in mind—Kansas.

And the drovers, particularly the conspirators, reverted to a more discernible drumbeat of revolt. Even Leach, whose head had been tended to by Dr. Picard, was still working the drag, and for whose life Wolf Riker had intervened, was heard to snark:

“He didn't do it for me. He did it for his goddamn drive.”

That didn't altogether seem to make much sense, but it also didn't altogether seem to much matter, as Riker pressed us ever harder.

What happened during supper two nights later didn't help.

“Hello, the camp!”

We—all of us, including Wolf Riker—reacted to the crusty voice out of the darkness. The voice was followed by an even crustier character emerging into the light of the campfire and carrying a Sharps buffalo rifle.

His face was crisscrossed with creases and a crop of spiky yellow-white hair under what went for a hat. He was dressed in faded buckskin that appeared almost as old as he did. The whites of his eyes weren't white, more orange.

“Who's on guard out there?” Riker wanted to know.

“Wouldn't matter.” The man smiled. “Long time ago I learned to walk moccasin soft and leave my pony a far piece. Who's the high hicalo-rum?”

“I am.” Riker took a step forward.

“Abner Twist.” The man smiled wider, this time revealing discolored, rutty, and absent teeth. “Buffler hunter.”

“I never would have guessed,” Riker said.

“I know,” Twist nodded, “buffler hunters smell like old guts all the time.”

And he did.

“Could you eat?” Riker asked.

“I could and I would. Been killin' what I et for the last three days.”

“Cookie,” Riker said, “fix Mr. Twist a plate and some coffee.”

The meat and drink did not interfere with Abner Twist's loquacity.

“Mighty lot of beef you got out there, Mr. Kiker.”

“Riker.”

“Right. I say maybe six thousand head.”

“More or less.”

“Good coffee.”

“Glad you like it.”

“Where you headin'?”

“Kansas.”

“That'ud be north.”

“It would—and is.”

“I wouldn't.”

“Wouldn't what?”

“Head north.”

“That's the way to get there.”

“Maybe and maybe not.”

“Why not?”

“Comancheros. Saw their handy work a few days back.”

“Chew it finer, not the food,” Riker said.

“Ever hear of a bastard named Corona?”

“No.”

“You will if you keep north. Got a hideout in the hills, forty or fifty of the worst sons of bitches in the territory—hit anythin' comes through and trade with the Comanches and Cheyenne—be it goods, wagons, cattle, horses, or humans. This outfit 'ud make a mighty temptin' target for that one-eyed booger.”

“Corona, you mean.”

“That's him I mean. Wears a black patch to match his black heart, if'n he had one—'breed sonofabitch, part injun, part panther. I seen what he done to that wagon train up north.”

“What?”

“I seen 'em hit them four wagons, massacre some humans, and carry some away—along with the wagons and everythin' worth takin'.”

“Were you with the wagon train?”

“Hell, no. Heard gunshots—looked down from a hill at a safe distance and seen 'em swarm in. Stayed at a safe distance and watched the whole shebang.”

“You
watched
?” Riker repeated.

“Hell, yes. My ma and pa only raised one damn fool and that was my brother, who's dead. I could'na made much difference except to get killet. Say, could you spare another cup of that coffee?”

“Cookie, pour Mr. Twist some more coffee,” Riker said, as we all looked on, and at each other.

“Much obliged,” Mr. Twist nodded.

“I don't suppose you'd care to join the drive,” Riker said.

Abner Twist shook his shaggy head.

“Headin' west. Santa Fe's buildin' a railroad, and they'll need buffler to feed on. That's where me and my Sharps'll be. Killed many a buffler. If there's another world and them bufflers got ghosts, I got a heap of explainin' to do.”

“I'd say you have, Mr. Twist,” Riker nodded.

“And I'd say you and your outfit better not cross anywhere's near Corona's territory. Well, thanks for the grub. I'll be gone before first light.”

And he was.