The Range Wolf (19 page)

“Hero or villain? Well, Guth, what am I so far in your appraisal? In your journal?”

Brandy and cigars.

We had settled, Wolf Riker more comfortably than I, on chairs across from each other in his wagon when he smiled and asked the question.

I had to weigh my answer. Weigh it carefully.

While I was no Boswell and he certainly was no Dr. Johnson, there was an advantage for me in these meetings and discussions, although Wolf Riker did most of the discussing.

And it was to my advantage to continue the meetings—from a professional point of view if I was going to write a book about this western adventure—and from a personal point of view in cultivating a relationship, if not friendship, with the mercurial creature who sat in front of me.

Besides, I was curious about the events that shaped this complicated network of paradoxes.

I did not want to be salient.

I wanted neither to flatter, nor to offend.

And so I sipped the brandy and inhaled the cigar as I weighed my answer—carefully.

Maybe too carefully. Riker seemed more than a trifle impatient.

“Well, Guth, what's your answer?”

“My answer is . . . how can I answer that question when your question includes two words?”

“What two words?”

“‘So far.' It's like trying to solve a riddle knowing only half the anagram.”

“By heaven!” He nodded. “You're right, and that's why you're here, to listen to the rest. All right, where were we?”

“Your shot hit your brother's shoulder, his shot hit Elizabeth. Like Cathy Earnshaw, she died early, but is not buried on the English moors. She rests on the ground that you'll never give up—the Double R. What happened to you after that?”

“Yes . . . well, I can't tell you about that without telling you about what happened to . . . my brother.”

I was relieved he said that. It spared me having to ask.

“Please go ahead, Mr. Riker.”

“By then the war was raging and both North and South were breeding their hero generals. Most of them on both sides had been cadets at West Point, many of them at the same time. And many of them had fought under the same flag on the same side during the Mexican War; but just over a dozen years later, they were fighting under different flags, on different sides and trying to kill each other.

“For the Union: William Tecumseh Sherman, Philip E. Sheridan, John C. Fremont, George Armstrong Custer, Ambrose E. Burnside, Joseph Hooker, David G. Farragut, and a seemingly endless blue line of officers, under the command of Ulysses Simpson Grant.

“For the Confederacy: J.E.B. Stuart, P.G.T. Beauregard, T.J. Jackson, Joseph E. Johnston, Jubal Early, Albert Sidney Johnston, symbols of the South under the greatest symbol and soldier, Robert E. Lee.

“For reasons of his own, my brother chose to fight for the Union, even though Texas had seceded from that Union. He rose to the rank of Major in William Tecumseh Sherman's Army of Tennessee.

“My reason was simple. The Double R. No bunch of Yankee bastards was going to take it away from me . . . and that included my brother.

“In the first few months the Confederate Army seemed invincible, winning victories in battle after battle: Fort Sumter, Lexington, Belmont, Shiloh, Fort Royal, Bull Run.

“But as the war progressed—or regressed—matters grew worse for the South . . . and Texas. The seaports were blockaded by Northern gunships, and the Yankee armies had cut off passage by road and rail.

“The time had come for me to leave Texas in order to help save Texas.

“I had mortgaged the Double R for twenty thousand dollars to pay off my ranch hands, some who were enlisting, and some too old to enlist, and left enough money for Pepper to run the ranch, until I could come back and pay off the mortgage . . . in legal tender.

“I joined the general who, in the thick of battle led his Black Horse Raiders, better known as the Invincibles, like bolts of lightning into the Northern Brigades. He won more decisive Southern victories than any officer, including Bull Run, Antietam and Fredricksburg—J.E.B. Stuart—General James Ewell Brown Stuart—the boldest, most beloved cavalry commander in the ranks of the Confederacy. Bucephalus and I were a part of those ranks in time to charge at his side at Chancellorsville, where he took command when Stonewall Jackson fell, and we rode with him at Gettysburg, and the Wilderness.

“To me J.E.B. Stuart was more than my comrade and commander. He was a legend. It would have been an honor to lay down my life in his stead.

“But it didn't work out that way.

“The South was fighting insuperable odds. There were over eighteen million people in the North, and nine million in the South, a third of them slaves. The North had nine-tenths of the nation's manufacturing capacity, two-thirds of the railroads, and most of the country's iron, coal, and copper. It controlled the sea. Attrition—Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan took their toll.

“Sherman made no secret of his strategy. ‘War is hell,' he proclaimed, then added, ‘At best it's barbarous and I intend to be just that—to break bridges, tear up railroads, smash mills, burn and destroy all supplies from here to the Atlantic salt water.'

“He did that and more, cutting a swath of death and demolition all the way—with my brother by his side—on the march that led to the destruction of the South.

“I presume that you were a part of all that, weren't you, Mr. Guthrie?”

I shrugged, then answered.

“Not a very active part, Mr. Riker.”

“Well, I must say, my brother was—with two battlefield commissions—the second as Major, given by Sherman himself at Chattanooga. And Dirk marched through Georgia with Sherman and was with him when Sherman sent Lincoln a telegraph.

“ ‘
Mr. President, I give you Atlanta.'

“But Dirk, along with other Yankee officers, was given something else—spoils for their war chests. The Northern Army could burn the Confederacy's supplies and houses, but many of the Southerners were in a hurry to escape with their lives and left behind other valuables including coins and jewelry.

“Besides slaves and camp followers, there was another band that traveled with the Union Army, that band was composed of Yankee traders—money men, movable brokers—who would purchase the loot from the officers' war chests, or whatever the enlisted men could steal from the South, in return for Yankee dollars.

“This was the band that Major Dirk Riker did business with. He had no use for silver ware, or necklaces, rings or loot of any kind—except for Yankee dollars that someday would buy him anything in Texas that he wanted. If he lived.

“And Major Dirk Riker did live.

“But General J.E.B. Stuart did not live.

“Not past the age of thirty-one. He led us on a path of glory. But it was too short a path. We would have followed him into hell, knowing that many of us would not come back. But as the poet said, ‘the paths of glory lead but to the grave.'

“At the Battle of Yellow Tavern, General George Armstrong Custer's forces charged against J.E.B. Stuart's Invincibles, and I was near my commander when he fell, mortally wounded.

“It was said that during the war, after J.E.B. Stuart died, the South never smiled again.

“Neither did I.”

I looked into the eyes of the man whose thoughts still seemed to be at Yellow Tavern, and assumed that that would be the end of this session, but not so.

The next moment Wolf Riker appeared ready, even anxious to continue.

“Shall I go on, Guth?”

“Please do.”

He sipped and smoked and settled back into his chair.

“After Yellow Tavern I knew the only possible way I could save the Double R for myself and against any Yankee bastards, including my brother, was to leave the Confederate Army and make my way across the Red River again. I knew the South had lost, but I hadn't lost the Double R and I didn't intend to. Bucephalus and I rode west.”

“You deserted?”

“Some might call it that. But I volunteered in—and I volunteered out.”

“With what rank?”

“Major.”

“Like your brother.”

“In rank only. He stayed in until . . .”

“Appomattox?”

“Appomattox. When I got back, Texas, including the Double R, was in bad shape. Pepper had done the best he could, but during those years there was no money for improvements or even maintenance. The only things that had grown and multiplied at the Double R and Texas were cattle and wild horses—and there was that mortgage that had to be paid off—$20,000—in coin of the realm, not Confederate money.

“There was only one way. It took a couple of months, with every drover that would take the chance, but the roundup began.

“And then one afternoon, after Pepper and I came out of the bank getting an extension on the loan, we came face to face with my brother.

“If we had met a few months earlier on the battlefield I would have killed him without a second thought, or the other way around. I still might have, but Pepper stepped between us.

“My brother wore clothes that closely resembled a Union uniform, obviously tailored, all deep blue and polished black boots. He had the look and bearing of royalty, except for the outline of the Colt under his coat.

“‘Good to see you, Pepper.'

“‘Heard you was back, Dirk, also heard you bought a spread near the Double R.'

“‘Contiguous.'

“‘With Yankee dollars?'

“‘That's the only kind that'll spend.'

“He turned and looked square at me.

“‘How are things at the Double R?'

“‘There's a No Trespassing sign on the ranch. That means everybody, specially Yankees.'

“He only smiled.

“‘I understand you're making a roundup—beeves.'

“‘Seven thousand, more or less.'

“‘Just about worth branding. Might even bring a dollar a head.'

“‘In Texas. Elsewhere, twenty dollars a head, more or less.'

“‘Where's elsewhere?'

“‘Kansas. Abilene.'

“‘That's over a thousand miles. Hard miles. I'd say impossible.'

“‘I wouldn't. Not for a hundred forty thousand, more or less.'

“He smiled again.

“‘I'm making a drive myself, not that far.'

“‘Beeves?'

“‘Horses. Got an exclusive contract with a friend of mine. William Tecumseh Sherman. Army out west needs horses. Rounding up over a thousand head at twenty-five dollars a head.'

“‘That's a good price,' Pepper said.

“‘They're good horses. When do you start?'

“Pepper looked at me then answered.

“‘Three weeks.'

“‘I'll be leaving in about a month . . . with the best drovers . . .'

“‘From the North?' I remarked.

“‘Most of them. Now settling in Texas.'

“‘Carpetbaggers.'

“‘Cowboys. We probably won't be far behind you. Horses travel faster than cattle.'

“‘You ready for some advice . . . brother?'

“‘Why not?'

“‘Don't get too close. Not to the Double R . . . or my drive . . . You try to stop me and I'll kill you.'

“‘I won't have to. The odds—high, low, Jack, and the dame—are too strong against you. You'll never make it.'

“‘I'll make it—even if it's over your dead body.'

“Before he could say anything I walked away. Pepper followed.”

Riker's cigar had gone out. He knocked off the ash and relit. While he was doing that, I was at a loss for words after the events he had related. I didn't know whether it was wise to pursue the subject of his brother, so I remarked about someone else, someone he obviously admired.

“Of course I've heard of J.E.B. Stuart, Mr. Riker, but I was not aware of some of his exploits that you mentioned.

“There's one other
exploit
that might be worth mentioning. Luckily, I wasn't riding Bucephalus when we charged across the swamp at Brandy Station with J.E.B., in the lead as usual—into a fusillade of bullets out of the brush. My horse was hit and toppled into the murky water and so did I. Stuart swirled back, reached out and down from his saddle, grabbed and lifted me so I could swing on behind him, and continued the charge. Otherwise I would've been dead in the water instead of telling you about the
exploit
—and there'd be no Double R and no cattle drive to save it, and I promise you, Mr. Guthrie, it will be saved. Do you believe that?”

“After what you've told me, Mr. Riker, and in spite of the odds . . .”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn't bet against it.”

“Well,” he said, “I believe my brother is betting against it.”

That gave me the opening and the opportunity.

“What happens if . . . if you meet again?”

He paused, then lifted his brandy.

“I told you that if we had met on the battlefield I would have killed him without a second thought, or the other way around. Mr. Guthrie, there are different kinds of battlefields.”

He swallowed the rest of the brandy.

I knew the session was over.

The drive pushed on into Indian Territory, but at a slower pace. The terrain was wet and muddy with patches of quicksand where rivulets fed into the Red—terrain where the beeves and horses were uncertain and reluctant to travel.

And so were the drovers.

More and more, when Riker was not in sight, I caught glimpses of two, or three, sometimes more, at supper, or around the campfire, or even in the saddle, leaning closer to each other, whispering. Most of the time Leach, French Frank, Dogbreath, sometimes Smoke.

I felt that if they were going to make a move—to desert, or do something even more desperate, it would be soon.

I stayed as close to Flaxen as I could while doing what I had to do, but thought it best not to alarm her. I certainly didn't tell her that Wolf Riker's brother might not be far behind.

Chandler and Smoke scouted ahead and reported that there were no visible signs of Indians, but also noted that Indians often provided no visible signs.

Cookie performed his duties, but I had the feeling he was waiting to see which way the winds for his advantage were blowing.

Reese was his solitary self.

And Dr. Picard was still sober. A couple of times he even mentioned San Francisco and the possible resumption of his practice in the city by the bay. But at this time his practice consisted mostly of tending to Karl Simpson, an amazing specimen. Few other men would have survived the beating he absorbed. Broken ribs, broken cheekbone, and heaven only knows broken what else, but not broken spirit. I believe that part of his hastened recovery was his vow to kill Riker. He was on his feet, but not yet able to ride horseback. He could, however, sit up next to the teamster of one of the wagons during the day.

Pepper was stolid as ever and never too far from Riker except when he knew that Riker wanted no company, as when he took his unaccompanied walks in the night.

I kept waiting for any indication of one of Riker's seizures, but if one did occur, it was when he was alone in his wagon.

And then something else occurred.

When everyone was sleeping—or seemed to be.

It was late and I was writing in my journal by dim lamplight. I saw the silhouette of Wolf Riker leave his wagon and disappear into the darkness. I went back to my journal and didn't know how much time had passed.

I was wondering and writing about what Wolf Riker's thoughts were, walking alone—resolute and confident—or in fear and dread—but determined; determined that his strength and will were indomitable. Or were his thoughts of Elizabeth, a lost love—Yellow Tavern, J.E.B. Stuart, a lost war—the Double R, and a twenty thousand dollar debt—the drive, and what was yet to come, Indians, Comancheros, the dissident drovers, more and more ready to rebel—his brother, who must not be far behind—and Wolf Riker's own words, ‘there are different kinds of battlefields.'

I heard a sound, muffled sounds—and then the flames of the campfire went out. I had a feeling of foreboding—more than a feeling. I picked up the lamp, rose and made my way toward the direction that Riker had gone—but as far away from the banked campfire as possible—as fast as possible.

However, it was not possible to move very fast. The night was a dark, impenetrable veil, the ground uneven, strewn with rocks imbedded in the soft earth. I stumbled on, holding the lamp straight out ahead of me. In the distance, the night call of a coyote, or perhaps a wolf—an echo, or maybe the call of a mate responding. Then other sounds, not a coyote, not a wolf—not a four legged wolf—a human voice cursing—a familiar voice.

“Mr. Riker!” I cried out. “Wolf Riker!”

“Here!” came an answer. “Over here! Guth! Is that you?”

“Yes!”

“I can see you—the lamp! Move straight ahead—but careful! Quicksand! I'm up to my waist in quicksand . . .”

“I can see you now . . . I'm coming . . . don't struggle . . . just reach out, reach out . . .”

I caught sight of him, his massive figure sinking slowly into the mire. At the same time I saw a knotted length of wood by the edge of the area of quicksand. I set down the lamp, picked up the cudgel, and thrust it toward Riker as I fell to my knees.

“Grab hold!” I hollered.

“Can't . . . can't reach it . . . get closer!”

“I'm trying!”

And I was, crawling as close as possible without being swallowed by the sucking bog. But I could feel the muddy girdle tightening, tightening around my body.

“Can't get any closer, Wolf, you've got to reach out!”

I heard a great gasp as he must have called on his last store of strength . . . then I felt pressure from the cudgel. He had managed a grip onto the other end, first with one hand, then the other. Rather than try to pull him out, I felt it wiser to just hold as tight as I could and let him use his superior strength while I struggled to maintain my position and my grip . . . my fingers slipping, but, somehow, managing to hold on in spite of the slime seeping through them . . . my face half submerged into the sludge . . . throat and nostrils clogged with what seemed like tar . . . barely able to breathe.

I was on the verge of exhaustion and ready to let loose when I saw he was slowly, ever so gradually, emerging.

“Hold on, Guth!” he growled. “Hold on!”

I held.

And then, by the eerie glow of the lamp I saw the form inching closer, soaked in mud, the unmistakable face and eyes of Wolf Riker, his brow bloodied from a blow to the head, his Herculean shoulders and chest rising, his arms pulling him toward me and free from the muck.

I almost passed out, or maybe I did for a moment or two. The next thing I remembered was Wolf Riker lying beside me, still holding onto the length of wood that had saved his life.

“Those bastards! This is what they hit me with.”

I did my best to spit out whatever was stuck in my mouth and throat.

“Who . . . who did it?”

“Couldn't make out . . . after the blow, three or four of them laid into me.”

Wolf Riker looked like a ghost, and I must have looked about the same. Both of us dripping mud and filth, but he was also dripping blood. There was death in his eyes.

He rose to both knees, then to his feet, and dropped the cudgel.

“You come with me.”

He stood waiting for me to gain my balance, then lifted the lamp from the ground.

“We'll find out who they were.”

“How?”

“You'll see.”

He led the way to the campsite, which was soundless and black as pitch, and then lit only by the lamp he carried.

If we were seen or heard by the drovers who lay in their blankets, they gave no indication.

Riker motioned me to stop, then set down the lamp and leaned close to one of the men, I couldn't tell which of them it was. He reached out and felt the throat of the inert drover for a pulse. In a moment he was satisfied and moved on.

Riker's thumb and forefinger were at the throat of another man, who woke and started to move, but Riker quickly covered the man's mouth with a hand and raised a finger to his own lips as a sign for silence.

As Riker started to rise, I made out movement from one, then more of the drovers, first Leach then Smoke and then simultaneously two or three of the others who jumped at him.

“Wolf!” I cried out, but too late.

Fist struck against flesh, again and again. The men flailed and piled onto Riker—with curses, grunts and yells.

“I got a knife!” I could tell it was Leach's voice. “Hold him!”

The knife struck in and out of Riker's side.

But in spite of his wounds and the ordeal in the quicksand, with his great strength, his fists smashed at his attackers. No other man could have done what he did. He picked up the lamp and swung it, hitting Leach and Smoke. They staggered and so did two more. Nearly blind with blood leaking into his eyes, he struck with lamp and fist felling Leach, Smoke, Latimer, and anyone within striking distance.

Riker dropped what was left of the lamp and disappeared while I stooped paralyzed, a short distance from the dazed and unconscious men at the campsite.

“Now we're in the barrel!” someone said.

“How'll he know which was which, unless someone peaches.” Another voice.

“Blood!” Leach looked at the blade on Cookie's knife, then wiped it with his thumb and forefinger. “I knew I stuck him! Shoulda been his heart!”

“How'd he get outta that quicksand?” Smoke gritted.

“Because he's the devil!” Dogbreath spat out a mouthful of blood.

“He's a man and we'll get him next time,” Leach said. “He needs us for the drive.”

“Mr. Guthrie!” Pepper's voice. “The boss wants you.”

A momentary silence as the men looked at each other.

“He ain't here,” Leach answered.

“Yes, he is,” I said. “I'm coming.”

“No, you ain't,” French Frank moved toward me. So did Smoke, and both grabbed hold of me.

“I've seen nothing. My word on it. This is between you and Riker.”

Smoke still held on.

“Let him go,” Leach nodded.

“Why?” asked French Frank.

“What're you gonna do, kill him? Besides he don't like Riker no more than the rest of us . . . or do you?” Leach looked directly at me.

“I'll not say anything about this. My word,” I repeated.

Alan Reese, who had not participated in the attack, spoke quietly.

“Leach is right. No good will come of doing him harm.”

“Let him go,” Leach commanded again. “I said it before . . . we might need him.”

Smoke unloosened his grip.

“Guthrie!” Pepper called out once more, louder.

“I'm coming.” And I started to walk. The last thing I heard was Simpson's voice.

“Leach, give me that knife.”

I wondered what they would have done if they knew it was I who pulled Wolf Riker out of the quicksand.