The Range Wolf (21 page)

The same words beginning with—“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.”

And ending with—“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Spoken by the same man, with the same unopened Bible in his hand.

But at a different gravesite. Not the bank of the Red River—but at the side of a hill in Indian Territory.

And for a different decedent, not for the soul of a cowboy lost in the surge of an onrushing current—a drover known only as Drago.

But for a buried cowboy named Chandler, killed at the hand of a fellow cowboy with a knife intended for another human target.

This time, Wolf Riker, the intended victim did not interrupt the service by shouting “put an amen to it.” He stood silent until Alan Reese had finished the sermon, then stepped closer to Reese, paused for a moment, looked around at the mourners and spoke.

“The trail boss is dead. This drive needs a new trail boss and I'm going to appoint one here and now. From now on, if I'm not around you're all to take orders from him. The new trail boss is Alan Reese.”

The drovers and the rest of us silently reacted to this unexpected announcement from Wolf Riker.

“That's all,” he concluded, “we'll move out in half-an-hour.”

The mourners started to disperse, all except Riker and Reese.

“Mr. Riker,” Reese spoke softly, “I have something to say to you.”

“Go ahead and say it. And, Mr. Guthrie, don't go away. I want you to hear this . . . if Mr. Reese doesn't mind.”

“No, sir, I don't mind.”

“Go on then.”

“I appreciate your offer, but I can't accept.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . I'm not . . . qualified.”

“That's for me to decide. Chandler thought he wasn't qualified either, but he did a damn good job and so will you.”

“The men won't listen to me.”

“They will because I told them to.”

“I don't want to be put in that position.”

“I didn't want to be put in this position either. But I am, and now so are you. You want this drive to succeed, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Then do your part. And as trail boss you'll get the bonus that I promised Chandler.”

“I can get by without the bonus. But Chandler's widow, who doesn't know she's a widow, can't. She needs it. Give it to her. That's your good deed. A worthwhile gesture, don't you agree, Mr. Guthrie?”

I looked at Reese.

“Mr. Riker doesn't need advice from me. He has to answer to himself and . . .”

I purposely didn't say anything more.

“I'll take the job, Mr. Riker.”

“Good. From now on you're trail boss, Mr. Reese.”

“About Karl Simpson,” Reese added, “if he survives . . .”

“I said you're the
trail boss
, Mr. Reese. I'm your superior.
I
make that decision.”

Wolf Riker turned and walked away.

“You did the right thing,” I said to Reese.

“We'll see.” He put the Bible in his pocket.

The drive went on.

Pepper had immediately retrieved his Bowie from the wound he had inflicted on Karl Simpson and replaced it in the sheath on his side. Cookie was also quick to reclaim his kitchen knife from Chandler's lifeless body—and to go on with the “good as done” mission for Wolf Riker.

I knew that Leach and his fellow conspirators would not give up. Another attempt on Riker's life was likely. But how? And when? Either that, or they would leave the drive—disappear in the dark of night and head back across the Red River to Texas. But it was also likely that they would await the outcome of Dr. Picard's effort to save Simpson's life. Likely, but not definite.

Once again, Flaxen was at the side of Dr. Picard, and once again Simpson's life was in the balance—this time in more ways than one.

I had taken two plates into the wagon for Flaxen and Picard, and once again asked the inevitable question.

“It's a fascinating situation,” Picard said. “Pepper's knife went deep, and Simpson's lost a lot of blood. But that Bowie didn't decimate any vital organs. I might be able to save his life. But why?”

“Your oath is why. The Hippocratic Oath.”

“But Wolf Riker didn't take that oath. He swore another oath. He's going to hang Simpson. Is that what I'd save him for?”

“Doctor . . .”

“Have you ever seen a man hang, Christopher? I have, and it's ghastly.”

“Doctor, you're ahead of yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean save him first, after that anything can happen.”

“Such as what? A thunderbolt from above striking Riker dead? Or a sudden clarion call of conscience cleansing that warped brain? Never, my friend.”

“Do you think that Leach and the rest of them who attacked Riker that night are—”

“You mean that night that you saved him?”

“—you think they're going to help, or stand idly by, and let Riker hang Simpson?”

“You're right about that,” Picard nodded, “One way or another, there's going to be some casualties.”

“That's what I mean by being ahead of yourself. Do everything you can to save Simpson, after that . . .”

“After that, what?”

“So will the rest of us.”

“Christopher's right,” Flaxen said. “And I don't think you even thought of doing anything else . . .
Doctor
.”

Picard shrugged, then smiled.

“Of course. I just wanted to hear it from somebody else. But there is something we have to do first.”

“What?” Flaxen asked.

Picard pointed to the plates.

“Eat.”

 

 

I had seen Cookie scurry toward Riker's wagon, knock, then enter.

I waited for what I thought was long enough—but not too long—walked to the entrance past Pepper, and knocked.

“Who is it?” came Riker's voice.

“Christopher Guthrie.”

“Come in.”

I did.

Riker was seated at his desk holding a piece of paper. Cookie stood nearby, the cat who swallowed the canary on his dirty face.

Wolf Riker glanced up at me.

“I'll be with you in a minute.” And he went back to the paper.

I nodded, turned and looked once again at the “unsurrendered sword” on the opposite wall.

It was less than a minute when I heard Riker's voice.

“All right, Cookie—you can leave now.”

“I said ‘good as done,' didn't I?” Cookie grinned. “Well, it's done. All the names . . .”

“I said you can leave now, Cookie.”

Eustice Munger walked past me cackling and mumbling as if I weren't there.

After the door closed I turned toward Riker. He, too, was looking at the sword, then down at the paper still in his hand, then at me.

“Well, Mr. Guthrie, I wonder why you're here?”

“Do you?”

“To give me a report on the condition of Dr. Picard's latest patient, the would-be assassin? Or to plead for his life in case he survives?”

“He may survive.”

“The hanging?” Riker smiled.

“Mr. Riker, in the name of heaven . . .”

“Heaven! But we're not in heaven.”

“Nor in hell, or are we?”

“What about justice?” Riker waved the paper at me. “These men tried to kill me and so did Simpson. There's such a thing as retribution, and justice.”

“You need those men. If you hang Simpson, or try to, they'll take retribution on you. I repeat, you need them. Indians. Comancheros. Border Raiders. God knows what else. Why should they follow you? You'll never finish this drive. They won't fight for you.”

“They'll fight and finish the drive—for their own greed.”

“Not if you hang Simpson.”

“I have a surprise. It'll make a good chapter for your book.”

“What surprise?”

“You'll see tomorrow, along with the rest of them.”

Wolf Riker folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

“Life is full of surprises, Mr. Guthrie.”

Wolf Riker said that he wanted all of us to be there.

“But a lot of the cattle will stray,” Alan Reese said.

“Let 'em stray. We'll gather 'em up later. I want everyone to hear what I have to say.”

We were all there. All except Simpson.

Riker stood on a box and lit a cigar as his eyes swept across the assembled drovers, Pepper, Cookie, Dr. Picard, Flaxen, and me.

I had never seen him more confident, calm, and composed. Rather than harshness, there was humor in his voice and attitude.

“Good. All of you step closer. Mr. Guthrie, Miss Brewster. That accounts for everyone except Simpson. We'll get to him later.

“First of all, I want to talk to you about mathematics, among other things.

“More than half of you have worked or ridden with me before—some in uniform, in good times and now in not so good. But there could be something good—better than we've had in a long time—in Kansas.

“I think I can count on that half, I know that most of you have some complaints—well, so have I—but for the most part, we'll stick together and see it through to Abilene.

“But there's a handful among you that wants to see me dead. We'll put that aside for a minute, because as I told Mr. Guthrie last night, I have a surprise in store for all of you—everybody that's here.

“It's true that our supplies are low, too low—flour, sugar, dried beans, coffee and the rest of it, and you haven't got two dime neighbors in your pocket—and even if you did, there'd be no place to spend 'em 'til we get to Kansas.

“Well, the surprise is that there's a place where we can get flour, sugar, beans, coffee, and something stimulating to drink, and the money to fill all your pockets, and then some—and it's not far from here—a damn sight closer than Kansas.”

There were shouts from the drovers.

“Where?”

“How close?”

And more.

Riker continued, sangfroid as before, between puffs.

“Fort Concho. That's where. There are some maps in my wagon and only Donavan knew about them. How many of you noticed that we've been veering west the last few days?

“That's because I've got a contract to sell a hundred head of cattle at ten dollars a head to Major Randall Wagner of the U.S. Army—some of them for the Indians and some for the soldiers at the fort.”

There was a favorable reaction from most of the drovers, but not all of them.

Leach called out through his perpetual snarl.

“Why didn't you tell us about this before?”

“Because I saved it for just such an occasion, when spirits were low and everybody needed a boost. Well, you're getting that boost now.

“And that's not all. A hundred head at ten dollars a head, speaking of mathematics, you know how much that is? One thousand dollars coin of the realm.

“And do you know how much of that I'm spreading among you? All of it! I'm not pocketing a dime until we get to Kansas.”

This produced an even more positive reaction, even from Leach.

“After Concho, it'll still be rough going 'til we get to market, and there'll be trouble along the way, but we'll make it and you'll go home rich.

“Even with five thousand head at twenty dollars a head that's a hundred thousand dollars.

“I'll keep two-thirds, and the rest is split among you. You figure out how much that'll be—enough to buy a whole hell of a lot of Texas.”

At this point there were even cheers. But not from Leach, whose snarl was once again evident.

“How do we know you'll do it?”

“I've been called a lot of things by some of you. But nobody's ever called me a liar. Even so, I intend to put it in writing—today.

“But before I do—about those of you who've already tried to kill me . . .”

He removed a slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“. . . I have the names of those conspirators on this piece of paper.”

This time there was a nervous, uncertain reaction.

“Now do you know what I'm going to do with them?

“Nothing. Not one blessed thing.

“And something else. I'm not going to hang Simpson. I'm going to free him . . . after I tear up this paper and forget about it.”

Riker knew he had them, all of them, as he smiled and tore the paper in half, then again and again—and let the pieces flutter to the ground.

“But I have to tell you something else. You've got to be more careful. There's a spy among you . . . an informer.”

There was a momentary silence, a pause, as Riker drew on his cigar and allowed the revelation to sink in.

Leach, Smoke, French Frank, and some of the other conspirators all cast their eyes toward me.

I was uneasy to say the least. With Wolf Riker you never knew where you stood, or what he was going to say, or do, next.

“I see you're glancing at Mr. Guthrie. No, gentlemen, not Guthrie. He made a bargain with you and kept it. I tried to persuade him, but he wouldn't inform.”

Riker looked at Cookie who was abashed at Riker's breach of trust as Riker went on.

“The spy is Cookie. I can't abide a spy.”

By then, Cookie was terrified.

“You have my permission to repay him for his treachery.”

That's all they needed. Lead by Leach, Smoke, French Frank, and Dogbreath, they chased after Cookie, who already was trying desperately to scramble out of reach as the pursuers shouted after him.

“The son of a bitch . . .”

“Dirty squealer . . .”

“Get a rope. We'll drag the dirty bastard . . .”

There were other epithets, more purple and descriptive, as they chased after the cursing Cookie, dodging and ducking. But the pursuers came from all directions.

Riker stepped down from the box grinning. Flaxen, Dr. Picard, and I were jolted by Riker's machinations. Pepper stood seemingly unaffected.

A couple of the men grabbed ahold of Cookie, who flailed with both fists and even managed to draw his knife, but it was quickly taken away as he was swarmed over, whining and gibbering, his mouth flecked with bloody foam, while he was brought down on the ground. In seconds a rope circled his wrists, and bound them tight. French Frank appeared on horseback and threw out the loop end of a lariat.

The men fastened it under the shoulders of the quivering and screaming victim.

“Drag him!” Leach commanded.

French Frank needed no encouragement. He spurred his mount until the rope snapped tight and jerked Cookie off the surface of the ground but only for a moment. He landed hard and was bobbing and bouncing through the torturous terrain tearing at his hurtling body.

But French Frank did not want to deny the drovers the sight and satisfaction of their revenge.

After a couple hundred feet or so, he whirled his horse and started back toward the onlookers, this time at a slower pace, still dragging and punishing the hapless man across the rugged tract through chuckholes, mesquite, and rocks.

But the drovers wanted more, shouting at French Frank to speed up again. He reacted favorably, spurring his mount.

But as the rider and horse began to bolt, Riker reached out his hand and Pepper lodged the handle of the Bowie into Riker's palm, who with one sure stroke severed the taut rope, and Cookie lay on the ground, barely conscious, twitching and cursing.

The drovers, most of them, obviously were disappointed that Cookie's travail had come to such an abrupt conclusion, surprisingly by the hand of Wolf Riker. But then, Wolf Riker was full of surprises that day. He looked at Flaxen, whose face was white, her eyes dilated with distress as she turned away.

“Man play, Miss Brewster,” Riker said, drawing on his cigar. “It could have been much worse. He'll be back to his pots and pans soon enough, won't he, Dr. Picard?”

Picard was already leaning over Cookie. So was Alan Reese, cutting away the ropes that still bound the battered and contused Cookie.

Riker handed Pepper his Bowie, and looked at me.

“You see, Mr. Guthrie, I told you they'd finish the drive.”

Then Riker turned and walked away, followed by a trail of cigar smoke and Pepper.