The Range Wolf (14 page)

Cookie at one time had described himself to me as “the eyes and ears of the drive,” as part of the connection between him and Wolf Riker. But as the drive progressed, if that's what you could call it, and after Riker relieved him of the money Cookie had stolen from me, that connection seemed to become somewhat tenuous. Even more so since Riker and I spent more time in each other's company.

Eustice Munger's antagonism toward me became increasingly overt, except when Riker was present. Cookie was quick to find fault. I didn't move fast enough to suit him, didn't clean the pots thoroughly enough, served too much, or not enough, food on the drovers' plates—a dozen other misdeeds, including spending too much time on Tobacco, and far too much time on my journal.

One night, he broached the subject even when I hadn't begun to write. We were still cleaning up after supper.

“And what is Mr. Daffodil goin' to write about tonight?”

“What I do and write about on my own time is my own business, Mr. Munger.”

“Is it about you and Riker? Or I'll wager it's about you and that fancy fiancée . . . describin' her ‘charms' . . . haha . . . she's a chesty piece of work for one so delicate—I seen you kissin' her and feelin' her up and down . . .”

“Shut your filthy mouth about her, or . . .”

Before I finished, Cookie picked up his dirty towel from the table and swung it hard across my face, then lifted his knife and held it close to my throat.

“You'll listen to me talk and take it, Guth. That's what you'll do. You might've put on some muscle since comin' on this drive, but you're still no match for ol' Eustice Munger and his little friend.”

He laughed, sheathed the knife, and started to turn away.

I grabbed hold of a meat cleaver and twisted him back around. I clutched Cookie by the throat and thrust the sharp edge of the cleaver against his nostrils forcing his head upward.

“You shut up about her, you insufferable bastard . . .”

My voice trembled and so did my hand. Anger. Even madness.

“. . . You lay a hand on me again and by heaven, I'll split your head. You son of a bitch.”

“Guth . . . hold on . . . I . ..”

“I'll clean the pots and peel the potatoes . . . do my work, but if you ever so much as say anything about her . . . or touch me again, you'll have to kill me or I'll kill you.”

I shoved him away and swung the cleaver down, driving the blade into the table.

I'm not sure who was more surprised, Cookie or I. But it was Cookie who moved away. Who retreated. And it was I who stood my ground, at least for the present time—my ground—and hoped that it was not apparent that my hand still trembled as I realized that I was not alone.

The incident had been witnessed by half a dozen or so drovers who were still standing nearby, among them Leach, French Frank, Dogbreath, Smoke, Alan Reese, Karl Simpson, Dr. Picard, and in the background Wolf Riker and Pepper. To my great relief, Flaxen Brewster was nowhere in sight.

As Riker moved toward me, followed by Pepper, the other men receded, slowly at first, and then at a more lively pace, amid murmurs of astonishment.

“Well, Guth,” Riker almost smiled, “it appears you're beginning to get your sea legs, even though we're not at sea. You might even get to be one of us, if you survive. That meat cleaver came in handy. But you can't carry it around in your holster.” He pointed to the gun. “That's not just an ornament, you know. Better be prepared to use it when the time comes.”

I said nothing because I didn't know what to say.

“In the meanwhile”—Riker took one of his black cigars from his pocket and extended it toward me—“enjoy one of these. There's an old saying, ‘smoking serves to steady nerves.'”

He started to move away, but turned back. This time he was smiling.

“You look like you could use a little steadying.”

The truth was I did need more than a little steadying, and I knew it. So did Pepper.

For just a moment, he touched my shoulder with his left hand.

“You did good, son. Damn good. But Riker's right about that gun, and he's about as good with one as anybody I ever seen, him and his brother both. But there was a time when they wasn't. You said you wanted to hear about my ‘tutorin' 'em. Still do?”

I nodded.

“Well, it's early yet. Let's find a spot to sit where you can light up that stogie and relax.”

We did just that.

Wolf Riker's black cigar was not nearly as potent as it appeared, and after a while I did find myself relaxing as Pepper talked.

“Well, durin' that little set-to between them Meskins and us at the ranch, I found myself havin' to do more'n my share of killin' in order to settle the situation. Them two boys did more shootin' and missin' than the situation called for.

“So once we got sort of settled, I took both of 'em out to a place where they weren't likely to shoot any bystanders 'cause there weren't none . . . and started tutorin'.

“Had 'em stand side by side and me nearby offerin' gun lore.

“‘Now, first off, there's them that keep the hammer on an empty chamber. I'm not one of 'em, might need that extra chamber. Now, the most important thing is this: Never, never squeeze the trigger unless you're willin' to kill. Understand? '

“They both nodded.

“‘Because if you're not willin' to kill without hesitation, you could be killed, because the other fella probably won't hesitate. And that's the difference 'tween the quick and the dead—that one split second of hesitation—understand?'

“They both nodded again.

“‘And don't do anythin' stupid like aimin' to wound. That lets 'em get off another shot and maybe kill you. Got that?'

“‘Got it,' they said.

“‘Good. Now, don't go aimin' for the head.'

“‘Why not?' Dirk asked.

“‘Too small a target and moves quicker than the rest of the body. The chest, boys, that's the place, broader and slower and where the heart is. A vital organ.'

“‘Now speakin' of that, don't give 'em a good target by standin' square on. The less they have to shoot at, the better chance of comin' out alive.'

“‘And forget that crap about watchin' their eyes. Nobody shoots with his eyes. He shoots with his thumb and trigger finger. When he starts to move you move—unless you figure he's faster and you decide to move first.'

“‘That's not exactly fair,' Dirk noted.

“‘Sometimes it's exactly necessary. Don't worry about bein' fair . . . worry about bein' alive. Don't squeeze unless you got a damn good reason to kill . . . Like us with them Meskins . . . otherwise they'll probably hang you. Ever see anybody hang?'

“Both boys shook their heads.

“‘It ain't pretty. Now, let's give it a try.' I pointed to the guns in their holsters. ‘Hook. Draw. Fire.'

“‘See them two branches hangin' down on that tree over there?'

“They nodded again.

“‘Them two branches is the hearts of two bastards who want to kill you. When I say ‘now' their hands are commencin' to move. You boys move, too.' Dirk's on the left. Wolf's on the right. ‘Hook. Draw. Fire. Fast but not too damn fast or the barrel won't be level. You ready?'

“Again, they nodded.

“‘So're they. Now!'

“Hook, draw, fire is what they done.

“Both missed. But not by much.

“After dozens of times and dozens of branches, bottles, and cans, and I don't know how many cartridges . . . they didn't miss anymore.

“They was both first-class pistoleros and not a hair's breadth of difference between the two of 'em.”

Pepper shrugged as if to say that that was as much of the story as I was going to hear tonight. But I wanted to hear more. I took a puff and persisted.

“I've heard both you and Wolf Riker talk about his brother, but I've no idea who he really was, or is. Or even what he looks like. Do they look alike? Same size? Same eyes, blue? Cold blue?”

“Well, I don't go around lookin' at eyes, men's eyes. But yes, I guess they're both changeable blue. And you could sure tell the two of 'em apart. As for size, Dirk's a mite taller, but Wolf's broader. Dirk's smoother and more educated, but Wolf's got what I call a ‘native cunnin' and unpredictability. You never know which way he's gonna spring.”

“I've noticed that.”

I took another puff of Wolf Riker's cigar.

“If it came to a . . . well, a . . .”

“Showdown?”

“Uh-huh, let's call it that, a showdown . . .”

“They had one of them, just before the war . . .”

“And?”

“They're both still around, but next time one of 'em won't be.”

“Which one?”

“Well, like I said, ‘there's not a hair's breadth of difference between 'em.'”

This time there was a note of finality in Pepper's voice.

I still wanted to hear more. But this time I thought it better not to persist.

 

 

On my way back to my sleeping quarters, still smoking what was left of Wolf Riker's cigar, I got as far as Dr. Picard's wagon and stopped. The reason I stopped was because of Flaxen. She was standing just outside.

“You shouldn't be out here,” I said.

“I just stepped out when I saw you coming. Actually, I was looking and waiting, hoping you would. I see you've taken up cigars,” she smiled.

I let the cigar drop to the ground.

“Cigar, singular. Don't think I'll make them a habit out here.”

“You never can tell. I also saw part of what happened between you and Cookie. Are you all right?”

“Yes. But I didn't see you.”

“I didn't want you to see me.”

“In case I . . . lost?”

“But you didn't lose. What was it about?”

“Don't remember,” I lied.

“Did it have anything to do with me? Because I don't want you to have to defend . . .”

“I was defending myself... and here I thought you were waiting to . . . say good night.”

“Maybe I was. But from now on, I think we'd better just . . . ‘say' it.”

“Are you breaking our engagement?” I smiled.

She lifted her left hand.

“I'm still wearing the ring.”

“Keep wearing it.”

“I will . . . while we're on this drive.”

“That'll do for now, but remember . . .”

“Remember, what?”

“It's along way to Kansas.”

“Good night, Christopher.”

“Good night, Flaxen.”

How close we were getting to the Red River and the Texas border, I did not know, and none of the drovers was sure. There were no maps available; but we were all sure of one thing. With every passing day we were getting that much closer. And with every passing day Riker was that much more and more demanding of the drovers. Consequently the men seemed to feel less like men and more like galley slaves.

Outwardly, they couldn't, or wouldn't, be too obdurate toward Wolf Riker, so, more and more they gave vent to their antipathy by taking it out on each other. The least little action or word was taken as an affront. They had never been King Harry's few, the happy few, the band of brothers, but now they became for the most part a regiment of resentment and discontent.

I recall part of the conversation I overheard early one Sabbath morning at breakfast between Dogbreath and Alan Reese as Dogbreath let loose with a litany of complaints.

“. . . but, Dogbreath, look around, behold the wonders about you, examples of God's plenty . . .”

“Yeah, plenty of what we don't need—rocks, dirt, sand, shit, and Indians . . .”

“Dogbreath,” Reese smiled, “the trouble with you is you are an inveterate pessimist.”

“And the trouble with you, tongue-wagger, is you're a born sugar eater.”

Each workday began earlier, sometimes even before first light, and lasted longer, sometimes until the men and animals were but moving silhouettes blending into the darkness.

Some of the men, though far from content, bore the situation in sullen silence, and went about their tasks. But others were not so silent and gathered in small groups with thundercloud expressions on stark faces, harsh voices, and sidelong glances in the direction of Wolf Riker.

These more overt dissenters included Leach, French Frank, Dogbreath, Smoke, and Latimer.

Rumors of defection became rampant, but Wolf Riker continued pressing without seeming to take notice—until one morning at breakfast when he began addressing the drovers, almost casually—at first.

But not so casually as he went on.

“What I'm about to say isn't due to all of you, but it's meant for every man jack of you who saddled up back where we started. So all of you listen. Listen, and remember.”

A sheet of silence fell over the camp. There was no more rattling of plates or slurping from cups. No one ate or drank as Riker continued.

“You all knew what we were up against before you signed on. I told you plain enough. But sign on you did.

“And I promise, I swear—you're going to stick to that agreement. Most of you didn't have two plug nickels to rub together—and your only possible payday was, and still is, in Kansas.

“Look around you. Everything you see belongs to me.

“The cattle is mine.

“The remuda is mine.

“And for most, the horses and saddles you ride are mine.

“The food you eat, and the coffee you drink, such as it is, are mine.

“And I know the kind of talk that's been going on between the would-be quitters among you.

“Quitters and thieves who'd take horses and food that belong to me, and desert.

“For those of you who harbor the notion of deserting, know this, I'll do what the army does to deserters.

“I'll shoot you.

“If any of you think you can outdraw me—try it now.

“Any one—or more than one.”

Wolf Riker paused—and waited.

Nobody said a word—or moved an inch.

Except Riker.

“Then that's all. Now finish your breakfast and get to work.”

Riker turned and walked away as he had at other times—toward Pepper, who canted slightly to one side, with that imperturbable look on his face.

 

 

Just a few hours later, a seemingly different Wolf Riker rode up beside me.

Tobacco and I were out for a sprint some distance from the drive when I heard hoofbeats from behind, then turned and saw the horse and rider next to me—Riker and Bucephalus.

But this was not the grim visage of the man who had confronted the dissentient drovers earlier that morning. There was an almost pleasant aspect, even a touch of humor, in his disposition.

“Out rather far from the drive, aren't you Guth? Thinking of defecting, by any chance?”

“No, sir, just daydreaming. Didn't realize I'd ranged this far. Besides, after that lacing you gave everybody this morning, I wouldn't think of chancing it.”

“Or of leaving your betrothed behind.”

“That's an even better reason.”

“That lacing, as you call it, wasn't for everybody—just a few turn-tails in the ranks.”

“You can't have that.”

“I can't and won't. By the by, does your fiancée ride?”

“What?”

“Ride. Horseback. Your fiancée, does she ride?”

“Uh, why . . . yes.”

“When she's up to it, I'll have Pepper pick a horse and saddle for her so the two of you can ride together sometime. It'll be a change from that bone-bruising wagon.”

“Speaking of Pepper . . .”

“Were we? Oh yes, about the horse and saddle you mean?”

“Not that.”

“What then?”

“The knife. The Bowie knife. How it came into his possession.”

“I told you—Jim Bowie gave it to him.”

“But under what circumstances?”

“He probably won't tell you the truth, so I will. Pepper and Bowie were rangers together. They, and a dozen more, were sent after a band of Comanche raiders. When they ambushed the Comanche camp there was a hell of a remembered fight. Hand to hand. Bowie was wounded. Shot in the right arm. Dropped the knife and fell to the ground. As a Comanche buck raised his lance to make the kill, Pepper picked up Bowie's knife and split the buck's head in two.

“Later, when Houston needed time to build a force against General Santa Anna's advancing Mexican Army, he sent Bowie to command the Alamo along with Colonel Travis. Pepper wanted to go, too. But Houston wanted Pepper to stay with him.

“Before Bowie left, he told Pepper that he had had three of these knives made. He had given one to his brother, Rezin, and since Pepper had saved his life with Bowie's own knife, the second Bowie knife would go to Pepper—the third to the Alamo with Bowie. Nobody knows what happened to the Alamo knife, since there were no survivors . . . but ol' Pepper still has his.”

As we rode I was mesmerized by his tale of Pepper and the casual way Wolf Riker told it.

“That is an amazing story and certainly worthy of being written about.”

“Go ahead and write it—if you get the chance. But that's not quite the end of the episode.”

“Then please—go on.”

“Well, you know about the Alamo. After thirteen bloody days came the final assault by four thousand Mexican troops. All one hundred eighty-three Texans were killed, but so were over fifteen hundred of Santa Anna's soldiers. Santa Anna ordered the bodies of the Texans to be burned, but out of those flames came a battle cry, ‘Remember the Alamo' and Houston got the time he needed. A little more than a month later, Sam Houston with Pepper at his side, led eight hundred Texans in a surprise attack at San Jacinto on Santa Anna's army of more than twelve hundred and fifty, killing over six hundred and capturing the rest, including Santa Anna.

“But in the battle Pepper was wounded in the leg. And that's why he still limps.”

I turned to look at Riker and make a comment, but Wolf Riker was looking at something else.

In the distance three mounted Indians had cut out a half dozen steers and were doing their best to herd the abducted beeves as far away as they could get.

Riker and Bucephalus bolted ahead as if primed from a cannon.

I don't know why, but I followed. Maybe it was because I instinctively reasoned that two riders would be twice as discouraging to the Indians as only one. Maybe it was because I didn't think at all. But follow I did, although at not nearly the same pace. Or nearly with the same effect.

Truthfully, I had no effect at all, nor did Wolf Riker expect, or need, any.

Without slackening his pace Riker started to pull his Henry out of its boot, but halfway, changed his mind. He decided to go with his handgun.

One of the fleeing Indians with a rifle fired his single shot Spencer. It was the last shot he'd ever fire. The Indian missed. Riker's Remington handgun didn't.

The Indian tumbled to the ground and Riker and Bucephalus trampled over him and kept shooting and riding through the scattered beeves and after the two remaining red men who did their best to fire their ancient weapons and escape.

Their best wasn't good enough.

Riker's fourth shot shattered the lagging Indian's spine, his fifth and sixth shots brought down number three. All three dead.

We had been too far away from the main herd to be stampeded by the exchange of gunfire, which must have sounded like little more than “pop-pops” in the distance, but close enough to be heard by the drovers riding point.

By the time Riker reined in, patting Bucephalus, and I rode up next to him, Chandler, Smoke, and Reese were galloping toward us with their guns drawn. Since all three Indians were on the ground deceased, it was obvious that the drovers might as well holster their firearms. And they did.

Riker didn't waste any words in his instructions.

“Get some more help. Gather up the steers and bury the red bastards. Smoke . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Comanche?”

“Comanch'.”

“Poor artillery . . . and poor shots.”

Then Riker turned to me.

“Come on, Guth; let's get back.”

He started to ride and I followed.

After we'd gone a ways, I felt it suitable to make an observation.

“You didn't handle these Indians like you did Moondog, Mr. Riker.”

“I told you there was a time to negotiate. This was not such a time. In the first place, these Indians weren't inclined to talk things over. They started shooting.”

“And in the second place?”

“I don't need a second place.”