The Range Wolf (3 page)

At the sound of the voice I turned in my bunk and saw Amos Yirbee, fully clothed and on his knees at the side of his bunk across from mine.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Guthrie,” he looked up, then rose. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“I've been awakened worse ways. Psalms?”

Yirbee nodded.

“Have you ever been held in the right hand of the Lord, Mr. Yirbee?”

“I have, sir, at Yellow Tavern.”

“What about the hundreds who bled and died there? Where was His hand for them?”

“‘Mysterious ways.' They're in God's hands now.”

“I see. Well, I'd like to wait a little longer if it's all the same to you . . . and Him. Let's see what's for breakfast.”

“This is the chanciest part of the trip,” Slim said as he spat out part of his morning mouthful of tobacco—just as we were all getting ready to board.

“In what way?” I inquired like a damn fool.

“All ways. Terrain. Dusters. Bandits. Redskins. Comancheros. Border raiders. You name it and it's out there.”

“But don't fret,” Baldy cackled. “Not with the three of us up top.”

“Three?” I inquired. “Who else beside Slim and you?”

“Henry.” Baldy held up his rifle. “.44 caliber rimfire metallic cartridges. Load it on Sunday and shoot all week. Our best friend and our enemy's worst enemy. 'Course a lot depends on who's shootin'.”

“Baldy can shoot a flea off'n your ear twenty yards away,” Slim said.

“It's not fleas I'm concerned about,” I noted. “Not after that little speech you just made.”

“Oh, that . . . well, that's just to add a little color to the trip since we're about to cross into Satan's Orchard.”

“What the hell is Satan's Orchard?” was my next question.

“Texas.” Slim smiled. “Well, let's get to gettin'.”

 

 

Texas. Dull, flat, monotonous in places where the Lord had stomped the dust off his boots—spectacular, craggy, and colorful in other parts—jagged cliffs and red stone monuments—a battlefield since time remembered—claimed and conquered by Indian tribes who fought each other with arrows and tomahawks. Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache. Then came the conquerors with gunpowder—Spaniards and Mexicans—and then the lusty procession of Americans, determined and unyielding.

I was one of those Americans, but hardly determined or unyielding. I was only determined to pass through Texas, and the primary passage was across the Red River.

Our Concord stagecoach could not forge across—too deep and too treacherous. But there was a way.

That way was a flat ferry, sturdy and large enough to carry the six horses, unhitched, and the coach itself, with the passengers standing alongside, looking down at the swirling, wine-colored water, while we held our breath, and the teamsters betrayed their amusement with wry smiles at our apprehension.

To my surprise, the only mitigation was that throughout the crossing, whether she realized it or not, Flaxen took hold of my hand and didn't let go until we were on dry land at a place called Texas.

 

 

As the Concord continued west, the glances between us became more frequent and lasted longer.

Somehow, at the way station, Mr. Brewster must have renewed the supply of liquid in his silver flask. The intervals between sips became shorter and the coughing spells longer. At one point Flaxen made a half-hearted attempt to confiscate the flask, but Mr. Brewster brushed her hand away.

Amos Yirbee continued his concentration on the Bible as the team of six horses kicked up ever more Texas dust into the carriage.

During, and between, glances, I knew not what Flaxen was thinking, but I often had to remind myself that she was a common criminal—well, maybe not common, but, nevertheless a criminal.

I thought back to Sergeant Baker's words, “. . . if you testify, this time they'll both go to jail.”

I couldn't imagine Mr. Brewster lasting very long in jail. He must have mustered just about all his energy and acting ability to command such a distinguished performance that evening, to say nothing of his dactyl dexterity in removing my wallet.

And to think of Flaxen Brewster in prison surroundings and confinement was next to impossible.

I found myself wondering how far west they intended to travel—and also having to admit that my thoughts were not entirely pure.

I even considered making polite and casual conversation regarding their destination, but before further consideration, it happened.

And it happened so fast and with such impact and effect that the occurrence is a blurred whirlwind in my mind; but to the best of my recollection and summarization—there were shots, first from a distance, then from atop the carriage—riders—three or four from each side of the coach—Indians—only one in the lead with a rifle—the others with arrows—one of the arrows struck the throat of Amos Yirbee, who dropped his Bible and fell to the floor—there were wild yells and cries from the attackers—the coach picked up speed—two of the attackers fell from Baldy's Henry—another arrow pierced the inside of the coach without hitting a living target—Flaxen screamed, then again—more gunshots— some from above, others from the Indian with the rifle—Baldy fell from the wagon and bounced like a dead cat—the rifled Indian shot the lead horse smashing it to the ground, and the rest of the team stumbled and twisted crashing into each other, ripping traces and overturning the carriage with us still in it, bouncing against the sides and doors.

What happened next is even more of a blur—dazed, nearly senseless—but somehow barely aware—the horses and stagecoach on its side came to a stop in a swirl of dirt while the raiders went about their business—killing Slim—cutting the horses loose—picking up Baldy's rifle—and then before they had a chance to get to the passengers, dead or alive, inside the broken Concord—more shots from a distance—and other riders—maybe a half dozen, saddled and well armed—charging toward the coach as the Indians scattered—but not before I saw the leader of the rescuers fall from his horse—and that's the last I remembered as I fell into a black pit, which at the time, I thought could be death.

But it wasn't.

How much later I did not know.

From out of the stillness, depth, and darkness of what I had thought was death, slowly through a vinculum—sounds, erratic, divergent, unintelligible, but foreboding—animal noises, hooves moving—and human voices murmuring—then one voice in particular—not murmuring—cursing.

At me?

I wasn't sure.

And didn't care.

“Stupid son of a bitch . . . bastard . . . charging in like some crusading cavalier . . . risking your life and the lives of my men and for what . . . damn idiot . . . Donavan, you damn fool.”

I finally managed to open my eyes, but the world was out of focus.

I closed my eyes, then tried again. Better. I was on the ground and near me lay Flaxen unconscious, her dress tattered, her breast smeared with blood.

More than a dozen of the fiercest specimens of mankind in an uneven semi-circle, and at the front stood the man who cursed at the fallen rescuer who had led the charge.

Bending over him was another man, trembling.

One word came to my mind as I gazed at the man who cursed.

Power.

At least six feet tall, but from my position, he was a giant.

Dressed in western garb, all black—but it might as well have been a suit of armor—and smoking a cigar black as his boots.

A face carved out of granite, eyes without a soul, a mouth without mercy. A serrated scar on his forehead just below the brim of his black hat. Boulder shoulders, a broad chest tapering to a narrow waist with a holstered gun strapped on his right side. The belt that sustained the gun was black and the brass buckle that sustained the belt was oval with the raised letters CSA—a buckle worn by officers of the Confederate States of America.

The man, even while standing still, exuded energy.

“Well . . .
doctor
?”

“Ba . . . bad . . . very bad . . . I don't think . . .”

“You don't think! Never mind thinking, you damn drunk. Do something!”

“Too . . . too far gone, Mr. Riker, I . . .”

Mr. Riker kicked the fallen man viciously with his pointed boot.

“Damn him and you, too,
Doctor
Picard.”

There came a painful gasp from the wounded man.

I had managed to move closer to Flaxen, touch her, and determine that she was alive—then struggle to my feet.

“Sir. Mr. Riker . . . she, she's badly hurt. Can't the doctor . . .”

“No!” Riker bellowed. “The doctor stays with Donavan.”

“But surely . . .”

“Surely my trail boss is more important than some . . . piece of fluff.”

“Mr. Riker . . .”

He reached out and roughly, but effortlessly, slammed me against the wheel of a wagon.

There was a last coarse gasp from Donavan. His chest heaved, his eyes rolled upward, and his head fell to one side with a flush of finality.

“He's dead,” the doctor said without looking at Riker.

As Donavan had died, the sun settled beneath a distant saw-tooth peak, and darkness spread across the plain.

I regained my balance and composure and staggered toward Riker.

“Sir, there's nothing more the doctor can do for that man, may I . . .”

“What are you, a preacher?”

“I am a gentleman,” I replied. “And that is a lady and I demand . . .”

“Wolf Riker makes the demands on this drive. You'll learn that soon enough.” He turned toward the dirtiest of the drovers. “Won't he, Cookie?”

“That he will. That he will,” Cookie cackled. “Rest of 'em's all dead. One with an arrow in his Adam's apple and the old geezer with a broken neck. All dead but him and her.”

He pointed to Flaxen.

“All right, Doc,” Wolf Riker motioned toward Flaxen. “Get her into a wagon where there's some light and see what you can do.”

Riker inhaled from his sloe-black cigar and walked away followed by an older man who limped.

I had seen the look of naked lust in the eyes of Cookie and the rest of Riker's men gazing upon the exposed form of Flaxen as she lay on the ground.

In case she survived, I wanted to afford her some semblance of dignity and if possible, protection from that look and what might come after.

I managed to get to her before the others and in the dark, break off the chain from my neck, remove Flaxen's glove, and place the diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.

The inside of the wagon was lit by two lamps illuminating the faces of Wolf Riker, Dr. Picard, me, and Cookie, whose filthy, scrawny hands still quivered from the feel of having helped to carry Flaxen, now lying on a makeshift operating table, still unconscious, and only partially covered by her torn and disarrayed dress.

I placed a sheet over her body and breasts.

“There's not much I can do,” the doctor said.

“You could sober up,” Riker remarked.

“I'm . . . I'm afraid,” the doctor stammered, “she's not going to survive.”

“You say that about all your patients,” Wolf Riker nearly smiled.

“She's lost a great deal of blood . . . there's a splinter lodged near the pulmonary artery . . . one slip and she'll die.”

“She'll die anyway,” Riker shrugged. “She's a lady, delicate . . . not one of the hearty breed.”

“Doctor,” I pleaded. “If there's any chance at all . . .”

Dr. Picard held up his right hand. It was trembling.

“Just pretend,” Riker said, “that she's one of those corpses you practiced on at medical school.” He left the wagon.

“Cookie,” Pickard ordered. “You can go now.”

Cookie left after one last look at Flaxen.

“Doctor,” I breathed. “Please.”

“I'll try,” Dr. Picard whispered.

The dawn spread slowly across five fresh graves.

I had spent the night in the wagon which had served as a makeshift operating room, with Dr. Picard and of course Flaxen Brewster.

The doctor's hand had steadied as he removed several instruments from a scuffed medical bag. A look of determination crept across his face. And it seemed as if a different set of reflexes took over his brain and body after Wolf Riker left the wagon.

If Dr. Picard had not become a sober man, then I had never seen one.

I watched, fascinated, as he went about the intricate procedure: removed the splinter—actually splinters—stanched the bleeding, and sewed the wound.

We kept vigil through the night, sometimes nodding off, while Flaxen Brewster teetered between life and afterlife, until the scale seemed to balance in her favor. When I stepped out of the wagon into the dawning camp I beheld the strangest sight I had ever seen—up to that time.

Five freshly dug graves, several men with picks and shovels, the belongings of the dead in a pile nearby, and most of the drovers from the drive standing by, some drinking coffee from tin cups, others smoking morning cigarettes, pipes, and cigars.

And as far as the eye could see—cattle—cattle—cattle—grazing and moaning.

The names of most of the men were unfamiliar to me then, but names and men I would get to know—and mostly to distrust and decry—besides Cookie, there was Leach, Smoke, Chandler, Simpson, French Frank, Dogbreath, Reese, Latimer, Drago, a pair of Mexicans known only as Morales One and Morales Two, others, including one I got to know better than most of the others—not a drover, but a driver called Pepper, who limped and drove Wolf Riker's wagon—and of course Wolf Riker, smoking a cigar, with a look of impatience in those deep-set eyes.

He spoke to me without removing the cigar from his mouth.

“We don't know their names except for Donavan, that damn fool, but we'll give them a Christian burial anyhow.”

“That's very decent of you, Mr. Riker.”

“It wasn't my idea, but I went along with it, so long as we can still get an early start.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Mr. Reese's and a couple of the others. What about the lady? Do we bury her, too?”

“She's still alive.”

“In spite of Dr. Picard?”

“Because of him.”

“Miraculous.” He looked around at the drovers. “Any of you Christians have a Bible or prayer book?”

A man stepped forward.

“You, Reese?”

“There was a Bible among the belongings of one of the passengers, Mr. Riker.”

“Yes, well, we won't waste the time. I'll just say the part of the service that's relevant.”

As the sun rose higher, Wolf Riker spoke the words while still smoking his cigar and without removing his hat.

“We come into the world with nothing and we leave with nothing. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Amen.”

When he finished, I took a step closer.

“Mr. Riker.”

“What is it?”

“I've got to get back to civilization.”

“Are you so sure”—Riker arched an eyebrow—“you're away from it?”

“I mean someplace where I can make connections with a stagecoach. I can pay for an escort. I'll pay you a hundred dollars—two hundred.”

“Two hundred, huh. Well, I can't spare anybody to escort you anywhere. You stay with the drive. What do you do for a living?”

“I . . . I have an income.”

“Who earned it?”

“From an estate, mostly. My father . . .”

“I thought so. You stand on dead man's legs. Let me see your hands.”

Roughly, Wolf Riker grabbed my hands in his hawser grip.

“And dead man's hands have kept yours soft. Maybe good for cook wagon work, cleaning and peeling, eh, Cookie?”

Cookie nodded and smiled as Riker dropped my hands, turned toward, and spoke to the one called Pepper.

“And speaking of wagons, he can give you a hand with yours if you like.”

“I don't like—and I don't need a hand or a foot or anything else from him or you, or anybody else, Mr. Riker.”

To my surprise Wolf Riker did not take umbrage to the man's surly remark. Instead he smiled and replied.

“Duly noted, Mr. Pepper.”

Then Riker addressed the rest of the drovers without a trace of smile.

“All right, before we start, listen to this. Now that Donavan's gone to his reward, we're one man short, so there are going to be some promotions. Chandler, do you know anything about trail bossing?”

“No, sir,” the man with a walrus mustache and face to match, except for the tusks, replied.

“Well, never mind, you're the trail boss anyhow, except that I'll do the bossing. And you, Leach, you're no longer Cookie's helper. You're promoted, too. You'll tail the drive.”

“I don't want no part of tailin', Mr. Riker.”

“Oh, our young prison graduate is particular, huh? Why not, Leach?”

“I didn't sign up for tailin', Mr. Riker . . . eatin' all that dust all day and . . .” Leach's lips seemed twisted into a permanent snarl.

“You'll eat anything I say.”

“I don't want no tailin' in mine. I signed . . .”

Riker's fist slammed into Leach's midsection, buckling him onto the ground.

“Well, Leach, are you tailing the herd?”

Leach gained enough breath to rise, his face ashen, barely able to whisper.

“Yes . . . Mr. Riker.”

Riker turned to me.

“That makes you . . . what's your name?

“Guthrie. Christopher Guthrie.”

“All right Guth, that makes you Cookie's helper. Thirty a month and bonus when we finish the drive. This is going to be good for you. To earn an honest wage.”

“But . . .”

“No buts! You see that herd out there?”

“Yes, of course I see it.”

“Well, that's not a herd. It's an empire. All branded with a Double R. My empire, and I'm going to turn it into cash in Kansas. Nothing in this world or the next can stop me. Besides, who is that quail in the wagon?”

“The lady's name is Flaxen Brewster. She's my . . . fiancée.”

“Well, just in case she does survive, you wouldn't want to leave her behind with all these . . . drovers, would you, Guth?”

“No, Mr. Riker, I wouldn't.”

“Good then. Cookie, take Guth along. Show him his duties.”

Cookie nodded and smiled as Riker continued.

“The rest of you saddle up and get these beeves moving.”

The men scrambled to carry out Riker's orders.

Cookie half bowed and pointed to the kitchen wagon, then slammed the heavy frying pan he carried in his hand hard across my back.

So began my introduction to a cattle drive . . . and to Wolf Riker.

The Range Wolf.

No man was better named.