The Range Wolf (23 page)

“Buffler hunter” Abner Twist and his cautionary account of Corona and the wagon train was just that much more of what Wolf Riker already had too much of—trouble.

If there is a mutiny aboard a ship at sea, the mutineers can take over the vessel, bind or kill the captain, and sail to some island.

But what do the mutineers do on a cattle drive with six or seven thousand head of balky beeves, if they overpower or kill the owner—and are unable to market them? One way, or another, they'd still have to get through Corona and his Comancheros. The other choice would be to desert and forgo any compensation for what they'd endured so far.

They would have to make their choice in the next few days.

One of them, Smoke, made so bold as to ask Riker what he intended to do about Corona.

Wolf Riker's reply was enigmatic at best.

“Trust me,” he said, “I've got a way to deal with Corona.”

But the drovers had little trust in what Riker said.

It was one thing to deal with Satanta, a Confederate ally—and fight Iron Hand mano-a-mano, it was another thing to deal with a cutthroat Comanchero who had no allegiance to anybody or anything except wanton pillage for profit.

 

 

“Here's a pot of tea Riker asked for,” Cookie said. “Be a good fella and take it over to him.”

“Why don't you take it yourself—or are you still suffering the effects of Riker's man play?”

“I don't want to ever get any closer to that sonofabitch than I have to. He'll get his soon enough, he will.”

“Would you like me to deliver that message along with the tea, Cookie?”

A look of concern, of trepidation, came over the man's welted face, and he was sorry as soon as he said it.

“You won't say anything about what I just said, will you, 'cause if you do I'll . . .”

“You'll what?”

He didn't know what to say or do. He just stood there holding the tray of tea with a helpless expression, and the truth is, I even felt a modicum of sympathy for what had happened to him—but only a modicum.

“Don't worry, Cookie, I am not an informer.”

 

 

The door to Riker's wagon was ajar. I knocked. No response.

I pushed the door farther open, entered, and placed the tea tray on the desk. I couldn't help but notice the set of maps—and I couldn't help wondering if one of those maps might hold the key to freedom for Flaxen and me.

The first was a chart of Texas and territory we had already passed through. No help.

The others were of more interest.

The Indian Territory.

Kansas.

Rough, but better than nothing. Much better. My finger began to trace a line . . .

“Have you developed a sudden interest in geography, Mr. Guthrie?”

Riker's voice cut through me like a lightning bolt. I had no notion what his further reaction might be—but once again—the unexpected.

Calm. Almost congenial.

“You must have heard some of the men conspiring to get rid of me, or of deserting, but then what would they do? Where would they head? For that matter, where would you and your fiancée head . . . besides, they wouldn't be very good company. Is that what you were trying to determine?”

I didn't know what to say or do, so I said and did nothing.

He walked closer and picked up the maps.

“There's a river crossing station about a hundred and fifty miles northwest, along the Cimarron, but you'd never make it, not the two of you.”

“We'll make it . . .”

“No, you won't. Nobody's leaving this drive alive until I . . .”

“You know this is no place for her, those men are . . .”

“Your colleagues. My crew. Destiny brought you to this drive and here you'll stay. Both of you—”

Riker set the maps back on the desk and lit a cigar.

“—all of you. I'll need everyone.”

“For Corona? Or . . . your brother?”

Wolf Riker's lips became tighter.

“For anything that comes.” Then softer. “But in the meanwhile, we'll have supper together again. Just like the last time. You, your fiancée, Dr. Picard . . . and me.”

Not more than a half dozen steps away from Wolf Riker's wagon, Pepper stood lighting his pipe.

“How'd the two of you get along this time, Mr. Guthrie?”

“Oh, fine. Even got invited to supper. I wonder if it might just be the Last Supper.”

“None of us can tell,” Pepper puffed, “which'll be the Last Supper.”

“Especially with Wolf Riker.”

“I sometimes wondered the same thing—but then, I've had a lot more suppers than you.”

“I'd like mine to be in San Francisco, or even Timbuktu.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Do you also know that it seems to me he reacted more when I mentioned his brother than when I mentioned Corona?”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

“In front of the bank that Wolf told me about—was that the last time the two of you saw Dirk Riker?”

“The last time Wolf saw his brother, but I saw him again.”

“You did?”

“One more time.” Pepper took another puff, a long one. “Come on over here. Let's sit on this log while I finish this smoke, and I'll tell you about it.”

We moved to the log and sat.

“I was alone on a buckboard, comin' back from Gilead, gettin' close to the Double R and there was horses and riders—as big a roundup as I ever seen. And also there was Dirk Riker with another imposin' fella mounted next to him. That fella, he wore a red scarf 'round his neck, and Dirk, he greeted me friendly enough.

“‘How you doing, Pepper?'

“‘Leanin' forward all the way.'

“‘Good. How's that roundup of beeves coming along?'

“‘Good enough. Gettin' close to the seven thousand mark. Looks like . . .' I pointed ‘. . . you're doin' good, too. Never seen that many horses, maybe near a thousand.'

“‘Maybe more. Good ones.'

“‘Never seen so many riders either. Looks like a whole brigade.'

“‘Not quite.'

“‘Notice they're all wearin' red scarves—like your friend there.'

“‘Pepper, this is Adam Dawson, late of General George Armstrong Custer's Michigan Red Scarf Brigade.'

“‘Yeah, they was also known as Custer's Wolverines. I heard of 'em, guess everybody did—on both sides.'

“‘Glad to meet you, Mr. Pepper.'

“This Dawson fella had a sunny smile for such serious eyes.

“‘Ain't no mister about it, nor “sir,” nor ol' timer—just plain Pepper. How far did you ride with Custer?'

“‘Well, “just plain Pepper,” nobody rode
with
Custer, we all rode behind him—from Chickahominy, Brandy Station, Falls Church, Gettysburg, Yellow Tavern, to Appomattox.'

“‘Yellow Tavern, huh? Surprised you didn't meet up with Dirk's brother. He rode with J.E.B Stuart.'

“‘Maybe we did, once or twice. Never did have time for introductions.' Dawson continued to smile.

“‘Well, don't meet up with him around here.'

“‘War's over, Pepper.'

“‘Don't try tellin' that to Wolf Riker.'

“‘Adam,' Dirk said, ‘my brother hasn't beat his sword into a plowshare, and never will.'

“‘That's right, Dirk. And do you mind if I give you and your Red Scarf Brigade a little friendly admonition?'

“‘Wouldn't try to stop you, Pepper.'

“‘Don't come too close to the Double R durin' your roundup, or to Wolf Riker's herd durin' the drive.'

“And that's the last time I seen Wolf's brother—and the last time I want to see him 'til the drive's over.”

Pepper took the last long puff from his pipe, then knocked the ash off on the log.

“Well, I guess that's enough for tonight.”

“Yes,” I nodded, “I'd say that's plenty, and, no matter what happens, I'd guess you'll stick with Wolf Riker.”

“Till the wheels come off and the pissants carry me through the keyhole.” Pepper got to his feet. “I hope you enjoy that supper.”

Cookie begged off cooking and serving the supper, saying that he was feeling poorly. Morales One and Morales Two took over the task, much to everyone's satisfaction.

Dr. Picard reluctantly accepted the invitation, as did Flaxen.

Once again Wolf Riker was a charming host—at first.

And once again Riker broke out the brandy and cigars. Flaxen partook of the brandy, Dr. Picard of neither.

Through supper the conversation remained innocuous until Riker inquired—

“How's your patient, doctor? Will he be willing and able to resume his duties?”

“Able? I think so. Willing . . . ?”

“I'll take care of that part.”

“I'm sure you will,” Picard said.

“And you, John-a-dreams, how's the journal coming along? And your characterization of me?”

“Any characterization is incomplete until the end is known.”

“Not always. Take Milton and his characterization of Lucifer . . . ‘hurled into hell, he was unbeaten and was not afraid of God's thunderbolts . . . a third of God's angels he led with him . . .' Yes, Mr. Guthrie, ‘better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.'”

“What about Corona's thunderbolts . . . and the drovers' . . . and your brother's?”

“I have a few thunderbolts of my own. What do you and your kind . . . like Miss Brewster here, know about those of us who were not to the manor born?”

“My life,” I said, “was a waste, a sham, but . . .”

“All you care about is your kind.”

Then Riker looked at Flaxen.

“I'll wager that if you weren't a high born lady of refinement you wouldn't be engaged to Guthrie; he would not be your benefactor, your protector. If you were . . .”

“But I'm not.”

“Not what?” Riker asked.

I motioned to Flaxen not to say or reveal anymore, but she ignored me and went on.

“A lady. I'm not a lady. I'm a thief. At least a thief's accomplice. He happened to be my father . . . but still . . .”

“And Guth, you . . . you knew this all the time?”

“Yes, he did.”

Riker pointed.

“The ring . . .”

“His mother's. He placed it on my finger after . . . after we got here, and before . . .”

“But why? Ah, I see . . .”

Riker studied me for just an instant.

“You thought if the rest of us knew, we might treat her differently. Lucky nobody found out.”

“Dr. Picard found out,” I said, “but he didn't say anything.”

“Another do-gooder.” Riker looked at Picard.

Picard remained silent, but I didn't. I rose.

“Why not, Mr. Riker? If we have it in our power to do good . . . why not? And can't you see that?”

“Why should a wise man look upon fools and wish to be a fool? Why . . .”

Riker paused. I knew what was coming. First one hand, then the other went to his forehead. He tried to rise, but sagged at the hips. His great shoulders drooped and shrugged forward. He was in pain and nearly sightless.

I moved closer.

“Riker, let me . . .”

“There's nothing you can do.”

“The doctor . . .”

“There's nothing any of you can do. Get out! I don't need any of you. Get out!”

We left him, his arms on the table, his head buried in his palms . . . and closed the door behind us.

Pepper was outside and started toward the entrance.

“He doesn't want anybody with him,” I cautioned.

“I ain't
anybody
,” Pepper said, and went inside.

No sooner did the door to the wagon close, than a voice came from somewhere in the night. The voice was unmistakably Cookie's.

“Just a minute, friends. Don't be in such a hurry.”

But from where?

Out he crawled from under Wolf Riker's wagon.

“We got somethin' to talk over,” he said from an even grimier mouth than usual.

He moved nearer to the three of us and spoke in a cackling whisper.

“So the Wolf man's havin' another fit. Good! I hope he goes to hell in a hurry. No! Let the bastard suffer. Oh, excuse my language, lady, but then you ain't a lady are you . . .
missy
—that's right I heard it all,” he cackled even nastier. “Bore me a hole under his wagon sometime ago and took advantage of it tonight instead of servin' supper; so now I know sumpin' none of them other rawhiders does, and that ought to be worth plenty to you and the . . .
missy.
”

“Cookie, you are a reprehensible . . .”

“Never mind that, Guth. I can keep a secret . . . for a price . . . say that sparkler missy wears on her ring finger . . .”

“If you say a word I swear I'll kill you.”

“I believe you would if you could, but that'ud be too late and who knows what might happen to the
lady
. But I ain't in no hurry. I'll give you two, no, make it three days to think it over—then my tongue just might start to get . . . slippery.” He pointed, “The ring'ud put the brakes on it—so think it over . . . pardners.”

Eustice Munger walked away and left the three of us looking at each other.