The Range Wolf (25 page)

Maybe we should have left the two bodies for the buzzards, but we didn't—covered them with rocks side by side after I removed the ring from Leach's pocket and replaced it on Flaxen's finger.

“You know,” she smiled, “this isn't necessary anymore.”

“I know a lot of things. Say, your French is pretty good.”

“Had a good tutor, and you're pretty handy with a gun.”

“I had a good tutor, too, ol' Pepper, but you made me kind of nervous there for a while.”

“Not as nervous as I was with that pug-ugly in my face.”

“Yes, well, it could have turned out a lot worse.”

“Not for those two fellows—I'm happy to say.”

“I wonder how it's turning out for Riker and Pepper and the rest of them.”

“You mean what's left of the rest of them.”

“That's right, Flaxen, what with Simpson dying, Leach and French Frank deserting . . .”

“Speaking of deserting, Christopher, do you still think we did the right thing? Leaving them?”

“It was the wise thing, the only thing. You know how Cookie opened his dirty mouth to Leach and French Frank and maybe everybody else, about you and me. Still . . .”

“Still what?”

“I wonder how Dr. Picard and Reese are fairing. I just hope that Riker didn't find out Reese helped us get away.”

“What do you think Riker would do if he did find out?”

“Who can tell? But one thing in Reese's favor is that Riker needs him—and everyone else, to handle that herd. And you know something, Flaxen? I hope that, somehow, Wolf Riker makes it to Kansas with that herd.”

“Christopher Guthrie, you are a strange bird.”

“Don't you? Hope he makes it, I mean. Whatever else about him—he's got guts.”

“So does a grizzly, but I can do without either one of them.”

 

 

We took the canteens and whatever supplies we could from Leach and French Frank's horses, turned the animals loose, and rode on.

The sun had topped out over the eastern ridge and barely broke through the still sullen sky. As we made our way north, a hot nomad wind whispered around smooth boulders and through forlorn trees and jagged rock. And somehow, it seemed to me that that wind was also whispering a warning. But I needed no messenger to convey such a signal—nor did Flaxen, although as I glanced across at her face there was not even a trace of trepidation.

It was as if we were out on a Sunday ride in Central Park. And when she looked across at me and smiled, it seemed as if her smile was in anticipation of a night at the theatre, with supper and champagne afterward.

Wolf Riker said that I had become her benefactor, her protector. But I wondered if, perhaps, at times, it was just the opposite—if it wasn't she who generated in me the grist to act as I had never acted before.

I, who had avoided the real hazards of war, where thousands were killed, and many thousands more were maimed and mutilated by bayonets and bombs. I, who enjoyed a charmed life with charming women and fey gentlemen in the rarified strata of society. Whose boldest undertaking was to sit on an aisle seat and criticize the portrayals of those who enacted drama and humor, classic and current.

Whose idea of adventure was to write about it while sipping vintage wine and smoking expensive cigars.

A man who never had to make a hard decision. Who never had to choose between cowardice and courage.

A man who never acted—only reacted.

From the time of the attack on the stagecoach and becoming a part of Wolf Riker's cattle drive, I had never initiated an act of fortitude—I had only recoiled and reluctantly, or reflexively, responded in deference to my own self preservation. Even when I rescued Riker from the quicksand, it was at no real risk to my own being.

And at the cave with Leach and French Frank, it was Flaxen who took the initiative and made possible our survival.

Still, as I once again looked across at Flaxen, it was evident that she did have faith in me as her benefactor, her protector.

“Wither thou goest,” she had said. “You do the deciding.”

Her voice broke the silence.

“A penny for your thoughts.” She smiled.

I said nothing.

“Well, then, I'll tell you my thoughts at no charge, Christopher. About what happened last night, and it was the first time it ever happened.”

“I know that Flaxen . . .”

“Let me finish. I wanted it to happen. So, if we get out of this, if we make it, you are under no obligation to . . .”

My hand reached out and took hold of her arm.

“Flaxen!”

From the rise where we were, I pointed.

In an expanse below.

Riders.

Thirty, maybe more.

We didn't try to count them. We stayed under cover, we hoped.

Comancheros.

Well armed with guns and rifles. And, from this distance, while we couldn't see the leader clearly, he probably was wearing a patch over one eye—and called Corona.

“Do you think they saw us?” Flaxen whispered, even though we were much too far away for them to hear.

“If they had, we'd know it by now.”

“I guess you're right.”

“But they sure as hell are going to see all those beeves, Riker and the drovers who don't have a prayer—and there's no way to warn them.”

“Christopher, don't even think of trying.”

“Don't worry, Flaxen. I'm not suicidal.”

And then it hit.

It hit in the distance.

But it was not going to miss us—or anything close to us.

It hit like a tornado.

Because it probably was a tornado—or part of one—spreading as it whirled toward us . . . yes, this was what is sometimes called a twister—whirlwind—duster—tempest—sirocco—squall—dust devil—sometimes son of a bitch.

But whatever the nomenclature, it comes out of nowhere and wants to leave nothing, or little in its wake but devastation.

Luckily we saw it coming from a great distance, and I also saw in the far distance, in another direction, an outcrop of sizable rocks, which I indicated to Flaxen.

She nodded and we both kicked the animals toward what we hoped would provide some measure of protection.

Both Tobacco and Bluebell raced with hooves flying off the ground. A hundred yards, two hundred, half a mile, a mile and more.

The roaring maelstrom sounded like a freight train and struck like a spout out of hell—seething—churning—swirling—pitching—plunging—roiling—penetrating—but it was our good fortune to be on the outer perimeter, rather than the midmost of the holocaust.

Still, we were peppered with dirt, dust, sand, grime—nearly blinded, but we managed to make it to what shelter the outcrop of rocks provided. We slid down off our saddles and dove to the ground with the horses hunching close to us behind the craggy cover.

My arms were wrapped around Flaxen and my body pressed against her, with our heads coupled near the ground.

We were both beyond exhaustion, drained and flagged, but still alive and together—and we stayed that way until both of us lost track of time. Time was a clock with no hands as we fell into a black pit. It had no bottom—we were swallowed by oblivion.

For how long, neither of us knew, but we had dissolved into another world, a surreal universe of silence—until voices penetrated that universe.

First I, then Flaxen, became aware of those voices, then saw what appeared to be giant figures looking down on us.

I could not determine what the voices were saying. They seemed like echoes in a far away canyon.

The figures, at first, were blurred, out of focus, then slowly I could distinguish a red scarf on one of the giants—and the features on the other face were faintly familiar, but younger, better put together—and without a scar on the forehead.

Both Flaxen and I were now conscious and thankful to be alive. The sky was a clean, clear blue, the air calm.

We both endeavored to rise.

“Take it on the easy, you two,” said the man without the scarf. “You're a very lucky pair.”

“The storm,” I said, “it . . .”

“Gone. Those devils disappear as fast as they strike. But we were luckier than you. Missed us and the herd by a slender margin, Mister . . .”

“Guthrie. Christopher Guthrie, and this is my fiancée, Flaxen Brewster.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Not as pleased as we are . . . Mr. Riker . . . isn't it?”

He didn't conceal the look of astonishment on his face.

“Yes, but . . .”

“And the other gentleman, with the red scarf . . .” I added, “Adam Dawson, late of Custer's Wolverines?”

“Mr. Guthrie,” Adam Dawson said, “are you by any chance some sort of fortune teller?”

“No. Just a friend of a fellow named Pepper—and a recent acquaintance of a relative of yours,” I looked at Dirk Riker. “I'll tell you all about it.”

“Tell us after we get you to camp,” Dirk Riker said. “I'd be most interested to hear . . . ‘all about it.'”

 

 

Dirk Riker's camp and crew were a pleasant contrast to that of his brother's.

Flaxen and I had refreshed ourselves and were treated to a tasty meal while Dirk Riker told us how they happened to find us.

He and Dawson were scouting ahead when they came across two saddled horses that were out in the open seeking to graze after the windstorm. Horses that led them to the outcrop of rocks—and Flaxen and me.

“Now then,” Dirk leaned forward, “let's hear about the two of you and my brother's cattle drive.”

I looked at Flaxen, took a deep breath—and began.

It was an abbreviated, somewhat abridged version, but close to the truth, close enough—from my first awareness of Wolf Riker and his callous reaction to the death of his trail boss, Donavan—his treatment of Dr. Picard and indifference to the survival of Flaxen—the capricious abuse of the drovers—and yes, my astonishment at his collected literary works, and his credence of Milton's line, “better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven”—his obsessive determination to drive the herd and men through rain and river—his brute strength, leaping on a crazed steer and killing it with Pepper's Bowie knife—and in marked contrast, his respect and deference to Pepper, and his concern and care for Bucephalus—how he negotiated with one tribe and challenged the strongest warrior of another—the attack and attempted murder at the pit of quicksand—the savage beating of Simpson—all of this and more—all a part of the journal he encouraged me to record, regarding his life and the cattle drive to Kansas—then, a somewhat varied version of Flaxen's and my decision to take our chances making it to the crossing station—and of course, I addressed his brother's more frequent attacks of blinding pain.

“And Pepper told you how that came about . . . that it was I who . . .”

“He did . . . and the circumstances that led up to it.”

“Wolf changed after that,” Dirk said. “And I tried . . .”

“We all change, Mr. Riker, some for the better and some . . . like your brother. But as I said to Flaxen, I hope he makes it to Kansas.”

“Someday,” Dirk Riker smiled, “I'd like to read what you've written about my brother.”

“Every story's got to have a finish. This one doesn't . . . not yet.”

“From what I just heard,” Adam Dawson said, “I wouldn't bet against him finishing that drive.”

“Except for one thing . . .” I started to say, but didn't finish.

By then most of the camp could hear the pop-pop tattoo of faraway shots—see and hear a rider approaching.

A rider wearing a red scarf—and the way he rode and waved an arm telegraphed trouble.

“Riker! Mr. Riker!”

As he slid his horse to a stop and sprang from his saddle, scores of other men of the camp came close by to listen.

“What is it, Mantee?” Dirk Riker took a step near him.

“A raid! Slaughter, it's . . . it . . .”

“Take a breath,” Dawson said.

“I'm okay, But they're not. Cattle drive, up ahead. Hit by ambush—more than a couple dozen—cattle stampeded—the whole outfit, what's still alive—takin' cover behind the wagons—gettin' shot to pieces . . .”

“Wolf.” Dirk Riker looked at Dawson.

“Mantee,” Dawson asked, “Indians?”

“Comancheros,” I said. “That's what I was about to tell you. Twenty or thirty. Flaxen and I saw them, but they didn't see us, before the storm . . .”

“Can't last much longer,” Mantee shook his head. “They ain't got a chance.”

“Maybe they have,” Dirk Riker said.

“Yea, maybe they do.” Dawson smiled.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Adam?” Dirk also smiled. “They could hit us next you know.”

“Not if we hit them first.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

Dawson looked around.

“What about it, Wolverines? Remember what Custer always said . . .
‘Ride to the sound of the guns!'”

“Let's ride!” someone shouted, and the rest took up the cry, including Mantee.

“You're not going,” Dirk said to him.

“I'm not?”

“Well, are you?”

“Not 'til I get a fresh horse.”

“Adam!”

“What is it, Mr. Guthrie?”

“Mind if I ride along? I want to finish that journal.”

“No, I don't mind.” Dirk Riker pointed toward Flaxen. “Not if she doesn't.”

“Christopher . . . you don't have to . . .”

“Flaxen, this is my chance to do something I don't have to do.”

Flaxen kissed me.

“Then do it.”