The Range Wolf (10 page)

Unlike the afternoon yesterday, the sky was clear without any aftereffects from the dust.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for some of the drovers.

As Riker, followed by Pepper, moved up to be served, Leach stood waiting with head bowed almost to his chest.

“Mr. Riker . . .” Leach cleared his throat.

“What is it?”

“Could I speak to you about something?”

“Go ahead and speak.”

“No, I mean . . .”

“Alone?”

Leach nodded.

“We have no secrets here, Leach. Anything you have to say you can say in front of your compadres. Go ahead.”

Leach muffled a cough with his hand. “Well, you know I been riding tail . . .”

“That's your assignment.”

“Well, yesterday, that dust got to me, got to me bad . . .”

“A young, strong specimen like yourself ?”

“And I was wondering . . . that is, I . . .”

“Go ahead, man, quit stammering and say what you have to say.”

“Could I ride on the flank, or someplace else this morning? Just until . . .”

“Do you hear that, gentlemen?” Wolf Riker interrupted in a loud, clear voice. “Our prison graduate here has turned soft. Up to a short time ago he was chopping rocks, but now he can't abide a little dust, he . . .”

“Mr. Riker,” Alan Reese stepped forward. “I'll ride tail this morning if it's agreeable with you.”

Simpson moved up next to Reese.

“I'll take a turn at tail after that.”

“No, you won't. Neither of you pair of bleeding hearts. Because it's
not
agreeable. You've all been given your assignments, including Leach, and I will brook no insubordination from anyone. Not today or ever, so long as I am in command of this drive . . .”

Leach started to lift his head in what might have been appeal, or defiance, but we were not to find out.

Faster than the eye could follow, Wolf Riker slapped Leach's face forward and backward knocking him to his knees as both Reese and Simpson grabbed ahold, preventing him from falling to the ground.

“No. It is
not
agreeable,” Riker repeated. “My orders stand. Chandler, where are you?”

“Right here, Mr. Riker,” Chandler stepped nearer, brushing at his oversize mustache.

“See to it that every man is at his assigned station and stays there. No deviation. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good. And we've got to get cracking.”

Riker turned toward the serving table.

“Cookie. Guth. Move this line along and keep it moving.”

“It'll move,” Cookie chortled. “Damn right it'll move.”

Then Wolf Riker looked at me and spoke in a soft, matter of fact voice.

“Coffee and biscuit.”

I must admit that my hand shook perceptibly as I handed Riker his breakfast, but if the Range Wolf took notice, and I'm certain he did, for little if anything escaped his notice, he ignored my tremor.

He took a bite of biscuit and walked away.

“I'll have the same,” Pepper said, then added, “Where'd you say you went to school?”

“Harvard.”

“Uh-huh. Well, there's different sorts of schools, son . . . and this is one of 'em.”

Pepper, breakfast in hand, moved off toward Riker who stood some distance away.

As I continued serving I noticed that Reese and Simpson, with Leach still propped between them, stopped by Dr. Picard's wagon and knocked on the door. The doctor appeared and after a brief conversation left for less than a minute and returned with a small bottle of liquid which he handed to Reese who nodded, then along with Simpson, escorted Leach away from the wagon and toward the remuda.

Whatever balm was in the bottle might help Leach some, but it was no cure for the treatment Riker had administered.

And I knew that Wolf Riker had seen what had just taken place at the doctor's wagon.

Years ago I had completed my education at college, but on this trail drive my schooling had a long, long way to go.

In the time that followed, the drive progressed at a pace that came close to pleasing even Wolf Riker.

One of the things that did not please him, or any of the rest of us, was the sight from time to time of riders in the distance, Indian riders on the rim of hills, silhouetted against the sky. Three, four, sometimes more. Far out of shooting distance, but close enough to keep track of what was going on below.

“Maybe they'll come down and ask for a few beeves,” Chandler conjectured at the campfire, “then go away.”

“And maybe not,” Smoke said. “Maybe they're a scouting party waiting to tell the rest of 'em a good time to hit us.”

“Like when?” Dogbreath asked, puffing on a corncob pipe.

“Like when we're crossing a river, or when there's enough of 'em, or whenever they damn well feel like it,” Smoke said.

“The ones that hit the stagecoach didn't have many guns,” Latimer observed.

“Yeah,” Smoke shrugged, “but maybe these ain't the same ones.”

“Then let's change the talk,” Dogbreath advised. “This is gettin' pretty damn distressin'.” He took a puff from his corncob and did change the talk. “There was this one-eyed saloon gal I bought a drink for at the Bella Union up in Deadwood . . .”

I did not stay for the rest of the story. Neither did Alan Reese.

On the way back to the kitchen wagon I passed Leach and French Frank, who were away from the campfire and the other drovers. Both were sitting under a tree, leaning back against the trunk, smoking.

Both were conversing in subdued voices and nodding to each other, maybe comparing bruises and grievances—and both fell silent and grim at the sight of me coming out of the dark.

My disposition was quite different.

“Good night, gentlemen,” I smiled.

“Go to hell,” said French Frank.

“And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,” I replied and moved on.

Cookie was already asleep and snoring.

And after a while, as far as I know, so was I.

The pace of the cattle drive was not the only thing that quickened. So did the pace of Flaxen's recovery. Within days she was on her feet, walking inside the wagon, just a few steps at first, but more and more, as she gained strength and even became restless.

During one of my visits Dr. Picard looked at her and smiled.

“One of us is going to have to move out of this peripatetic abode, Miss Brewster, since I don't think we can be considered doctor and patient much longer.”

Flaxen started to speak, but Picard continued.

“I think it'll do me good to sleep in the open . . .”

“Oh, no, doctor. I . . .”

“Say no more. I insist. And I will come by from time to time to look in on my former patient. Don't you think that that's a satisfactory arrangement, Mr. Guthrie?”

“I do. But we'd better check with Mr. Riker. He disapproves of any change without his prior permission.”

 

 

“Why, certainly,” Wolf Riker said when I went to his wagon. “I think that's a good idea and I'm happy your fiancée is recovering so rapidly. In fact this calls for a celebration. Miss Brewster, Doc, you, and I will have supper here tomorrow. You think she'll be up to that, Guth?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Good. Cookie can serve and he can get someone to help him. And now sit down, Guth. Do you want me to tell you more about the beginning? For your book, I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

It was hard to believe that this was the same brute who threw himself onto a crazed animal with nothing but his bare hands, who mercilessly drove the men past exhaustion, cursed and humiliated them and me, and slapped Leach senseless. The same man who now sat across from me, smiling, inquiring.

“Will you take notes?”

“No, sir. I'll remember.”

“Very well. Where were we?”

“You and your brother came to Texas with five hundred dollars,” I said and sat at a chair.

“
My
five hundred dollars.”

“You had made camp.”

“That's right, the two of us.”

“And then?”

Wolf Riker lit a cigar, reflected a moment, and went on with his narrative.

“It was late. That day we had covered almost forty miles. We were bone tired, almost asleep on our feet.

“The journey from our native Virginia had begun weeks before, but the real journey of the two brothers began years before, orphans of a plague, raised in an orphanage, if you could call it that, until I was old enough to run away at the age of thirteen and begin doing a man's work for a man's pay—the railroads—the docks—the sea—scraping and saving every penny, nickel, dime, and dollar to get Dirk out of that pesthole and into a proper boarding school, then university.

“As for my education, most of it came from a professional gambler named Duncan Ravenal. I went to his rescue when he was being beaten up by a couple of sailors who had accused him of cheating at a game of poker. I became his bodyguard–factotum, and in return he taught me the subtle art of shortening the odds at cards.

“Luckily for me, besides being physically strong for my age, I had an excellent memory and deft hands. By the time I was sixteen I could count the cards at blackjack and within a year under his tutelage, just before he died of drink, I could deal seconds and thirds at poker.

“But I made it a point never to win so much as to cast suspicion on a young innocent poker player. Just enough to get by and allow Dirk to finish his education.

“When that time came we traveled west by various modes of transportation and in Arkansas bought guns, holsters, and two beautiful mounts with attendant saddles, and crossed into Texas with my remaining five hundred dollars to seek our fortune.

“Sometime after that we were at the campfire I spoke of. Weary as we were, we fixed and ate supper, took off our gun belts, and started to lie on our blankets to sleep.

“Voices came out of the night, followed by two figures, with drawn guns, each pointing at each of us. Their faces, even though smiling, were no more hospitable than their guns.

“‘Well, look here. A couple of jaspers gettin' ready to go to sleep.'

“‘They're gonna go to sleep all right.'

“‘Good lookin' horses, saddles . . . and guns.'

“He pointed to our gun belts on the ground.

“‘And most likely with a bankroll tucked away somewheres.'

“‘That'll be easy to find . . . later.'

“Two gunshots splintered the night. But not aimed at us. Both men hit the ground face first, with their guns unfired and with bullets in their backs.

“A man limped out of the shadows, made his way to the two bodies, probed each of them with the toe of his boot, nodded a satisfied nod, then holstered his gun.

“‘Evenin', boys. Name's Pepper. What's yours?'

“‘Wolf Riker.'

“‘Dirk Riker.'

“‘Brothers, huh? So were them two.'

“He took a folded poster from a pocket, unfolded it.

“‘Sam and Seth Keeshaw—worthless, except for the four hundred dollar reward. Dead or alive.'

“‘You didn't give them much chance to stay alive,' Dirk said.

“‘They never gave anybody any chance. Not long ago, among other things, they hit the Olang ranch, raped and murdered the mother and daughter, staked the father on an anthill. There wasn't much left of him when I come along.'

“‘You a lawman?' I asked.

“‘Was. Texas Ranger. Hunter now. Bounty hunter. So was they, in a way. Woulda robbed you and left you dead. Not in that order. From back east, are ya'?'

“We both nodded.

“‘If you want to stay alive out here, the first thing you gotta learn is, in the open you either sleep in turns, or with your guns at the ready, not on the ground.'

“‘We've learned the hard way,' Dirk said.

“‘Not as hard as it might've been.'

“‘Thanks to you,' I said.

“‘Think nothin' of it,' Pepper smiled. ‘I didn't do it for you . . . altogether. Been trackin' 'em for this.'

“He waved the poster, folded it, and put it back in his pocket. ‘You fellas thinkin' of settlin' around here?'

“‘Might be,' I said. ‘If we find a good deal.'

“‘Got a poke?'

“‘Five hundred.' I patted my pocket.

“‘That's a start. Might try Gilead up the trail apiece. There's some prospects around there. The Olang ranch for one.'

“‘Say, Mr. . . . Pepper, is it?' I said.

“‘Just plain Pepper.'

“‘Are you going to take those bodies back for the reward?'

“‘Not altogether. Got a sack on my saddle horn.' Pepper pulled a thick, long knife out of a sheath on his belt. ‘Just enough from the neck up to identify 'em.'

“And that, Guth,” Wolf Riker said, “is how it began. At least with Pepper.”

Riker took a puff from his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring.

“You think that that's enough for tonight, Guth?”

“Yes. I think that's quite enough, Mr. Riker.”

The next day the good omen was that the Indian riders on the rims of the hills were gone.

The bad omen was that the Indian riders on the rims of the hills were gone.

Among the drovers there were all sorts of conjectures and counterconjectures. But as Pepper put it, all the guesses in the camp weren't worth a spit in the river . . . “Injun figures to do one thing, most likely he'll do 'tuther.”

When I saw Pepper that morning I couldn't help looking at the Bowie knife on his hip and thinking of what tales it could tell if that blade could talk. But Pepper did talk, about something else.

“You're gonna have supper with the boss tonight, you and the lady and Doc.”

It wasn't a question, but a statement. But he did follow with a question.

“Know who's gonna take your place with Cookie for the time?”

“No, I don't.”

“Morales One . . . and Morales Two.”

“Why do they call them that? What are the rest of their names?”

“They both stumbled into the ranch some while back, both of 'em bedraggled, on foot, hungry, and with hardly any American to speak of at the time, lookin' for work, any kind of work for any kind of pay—or none at all, just food and lodge.”

“‘Can you ride?' Riker asks 'em. ‘
Vaquero?
'

“‘
Sí. Vaqueros
,' the older one nods.

“‘What else?' Riker inquires. ‘
Què mas?
'

“‘
Cocinero. En la cocina
.'

“‘We already got a cook. Don't need anymore,' Riker gets across to 'em, ‘that makes you riders—
vaqueros
. What's your names?
Nombres?
'

“‘Morales,' one points to himself.

“‘And him?' Riker points to the younger one.

“‘Morales.'

“‘Where from?' Wolf asks the older one.‘
Donde?
'

“‘Durango.'

“‘And you?
Usted?
' To the younger.

“‘Durango, Durango.'

“‘Oh, so you're both from a place called Durango . . .'

“‘No-no.' Says the older one. ‘From Durango, Durango.'

“You see, Mr. Guthrie,” Pepper explained, “Durango is the name of the village in the state of Durango in Mexico. So Morales One and Morales Two are from Durango, Durango.” Well, Pepper scratched his whiskers and explained further. “We didn't know, or care, whether they was father and son, or uncle and nephew, or cousins or what. So we started callin' the older one Morales One and the younger Morales Two. And it stuck ever since, even though now they do speak some American, not as good as me.”

“Thanks, Pepper,” I said. “I do appreciate the information, on both counts.”

But Cookie didn't appreciate the fact that I was getting the invitation to dine with the boss even though he was getting two helpers instead of one—at least for that night.

The drive made good mileage that day and that made Wolf Riker a more pleasant host that evening.

I had brought Flaxen's suitcase from the utility wagon. She had selected and changed into a more appropriate dress and looked as if she were the “
soigné
” of a society celebration. And she was beautiful and fresh as a spring garden.

In spite of the circumstance of our first meeting, I almost believed that Flaxen Brewster was what she appeared to be. Maybe because I wanted to believe it.

Dr. Picard and I spruced up as best we could, and we three made our way toward Wolf Riker's wagon.

As we passed the campfire, it was not hard to notice the reaction of the drovers, who stopped talking and smoking as they turned their attention to the three of us. But their attention was not focused on either Dr. Picard or me.

It was as if they had never seen anything like the vision that Flaxen Brewster manifested. And they probably hadn't.

Wolf Riker greeted us pleasantly and played the role of amiable host as if he were on a theatre stage, even to his wardrobe, which was now not all black. Gray was the prevailing color, with a white shirt, and a pearl gray string tie. He did indeed look like the leading men of several plays I had reviewed.

He offered us a before-supper drink, which we all accepted, all except Dr. Picard.

“Still abstemious, eh, doctor? I never thought I'd live to see the day,” Riker smiled.

“I hope you live to see many days,” Picard returned the smile.

“I'll drink to that,” Riker countered.

We sat at the table as Cookie, Morales One, and Morales Two served the best meal I had had since leaving Baton Rouge.

“May I say, Miss Brewster, that you are quite a dazzling enhancement to our . . . expedition. Mr. Guthrie is indeed fortunate.”

“Thank you, Mr. Riker. I'd say that Christopher and I are mutually fortunate.”

“Yes. And that diamond ring is also quite dazzling. How long have you been engaged?”

There was a momentary hesitation. Dr. Picard glanced at both Flaxen and me.

“A few months,” I said. “We were on our way to San Francisco to be married; but now, after what happened to . . . Mr. Brewster, we may postpone . . .”

“Ah, yes. Miss Brewster is in mourning. However, I wouldn't advise waiting too long. Anything can happen.”

“Thank you for your advice, Mr. Riker,” Flaxen said flatly.

“Pity this isn't a sailing ship,” Riker lit a cigar. “Do you mind if I enjoy a cigar, Miss Brewster?”

“Please do.”

“The captain could perform a marriage ceremony,” Riker inhaled.

“And they could spend their honeymoon on the trail,” Dr. Picard added. “Among these blissful surroundings.”

“Are you married, Mr. Riker?” Flaxen asked.

This time it was Riker who hesitated momentarily as if stiffened by the unexpected question.

“No.”

But he quickly recovered and even smiled.

“But then, I've not been as fortunate as Mr. Guthrie . . . in some ways.”

The rest of the evening's conversation amounted to chitchat and, at times, forced pleasantries, until we rose from the table.

“Do you mind, Miss Brewster, if I offer just a little more advice?”

“Please do.”

“I would advise that you find some, shall we say, ‘duds' more fitting for the trail. These . . . men, aren't used to viewing such . . . feminine finery.”

“I only dressed for this special occasion.”

“Very good. And I suppose, like Mr. Guthrie, you are used to having things done for you. Well, I think doing a few things for yourself will hardly dislocate any joints. It seems to have done Mr. Guthrie some good.”

“I have done things for myself and will continue to do so, and try not to make myself a . . . burden, until we leave your . . . hospitality.”

“And I suggest you keep your door locked when you are alone, Miss Brewster, as a precautionary measure. Mr. Guthrie will accompany you whenever necessary.”

“Yes, I'll do that, Mr. Riker,” I nodded, “and try not to have it interfere with my duties.”

 

 

Just a few jottings, by lantern light, in my journal later that night.

I had been unprepared and pleasantly surprised by Wolf Riker's appearance and mostly gracious attitude at supper. He received us more like a southern gentleman of Virginia than a truculent brute, relentlessly driving men and beasts through unforgiving terrain with a contentious crew. He was for the most part civil, and even courteous. Not once did he refer to me as Guth.

Dr. Picard was anything but the trembling, inebriated wreck I first met on the drive. Now, he was the picture of sobriety with a ready riposte to Riker's occasional innuendo.

And Flaxen, Flaxen Brewster. I could not have been prouder of her, of her mien and manner, if she actually had been my fiancée.

But Wolf Riker was right about one thing. She had to be heedful about her appearance from here on.

I did not appreciate the way that Cookie eyed her more often than not during the course of the evening. He could barely constrain the lascivious look in his wanton eyes.

At the doorstep of her wagon I could not resist a concluding comment.

“Flaxen, you were magnificent this evening.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Guthrie.”

“Don't you think, since we are engaged
pro forma
, we should call each other by our first names?”

“Of course I do,” she smiled, “when other people are around.”

“You never can tell,” I whispered, “when other people are listening—or watching.”

“In that case,” she also whispered, “a good night kiss, Christopher.”

She leaned forward, close, but not quite close enough. From a distance, and in the dark, it did seem like a kiss.

But not to me.