The Range Wolf (4 page)

There was no doubt as to who ruled the strange, savage, new world that I now inhabited.

Wolf Riker was the ruler—and no one questioned his authority, at least in a voice that could be heard. He was the sovereign and his saddle was his throne. During the day he was mostly in the saddle on a monumental horse he had named Bucephalus.

But soon I was to find out that he also had kingly quarters. The closed wooden wagon where he often slept, but I had yet to see the inside and contents of that wagon—the wagon driven by Pepper, the man who limped and canted to the left—of indeterminate age, fifty—sixty—well worn, but still bone hard, with cord-like fingers made for the trigger of the low-slung .44 strapped to one side of his lean frame and a sheathed knife strapped to the other. A man who said things to Wolf Riker that no other man dared utter. There seemed to be an unspoken bond between them—even beyond brothers.

There were others among the hierarchy in the drive—as on a sailing ship. The trail boss was first mate and Cookie, my immediate superior, held a lofty rank, that of vice tyrant, as far as I was concerned.

He was obsequious and servile to Wolf Riker, but condescending and blasphemous to everyone else—especially to me. And I was to find out that he was something else.

In this new world that I now inhabited there was also a new language that I was soon to learn—words and phrases that I had never heard—“cutting out”—“booger”—“hog leg”—“maverick”—“overhack”—“remuda”—“roistered”—“night hawk”—“skookum”—“suggans”—“waddy”—an entire dictionary of the trail.

And then there were myriad definitions for those who held the position of my immediate superior—“bean master”—“belly cheater”—“dough puncher”—“grub worm”—“gut robber”—and dozens more, appellations that have no place in polite society, but then a trail drive is anything but polite.

That first day on the drive is among the worst experiences of my recollection up to that time—but somehow, though in a daze, I managed to survive—and to serve. Through kicks and curses as the herd traveled north, I somehow carried out Cookie's orders as we completed what passed for breakfast, the noon meal, and supper for the drovers.

Humiliation is too soft a word to describe the experience.

Humiliation and exhaustion, but somehow, I made it into the night, mostly avoiding Wolf Riker, who had more important things on his mind.

I was informed that often Riker ate alone, or with Dr. Picard, in his wagon, but luckily for me, that day he dined with the drovers, otherwise serving him would have been included in my duties.

When we weren't preparing or cleaning up after meals, I rode on his wagon next to Cookie, whose odor was barely bearable.

I did manage to look into the wagon with Dr. Picard and his inert patient, my “fiancée,” Flaxen Brewster.

“How is she doing, doctor?” I asked.

“Hard to tell, until, and
if
, she regains consciousness.”

“If? What do you mean, ‘
if
'?”

“If is a conjunction, my boy, meaning in simple terms, maybe she will, and maybe she won't. I can't predict either way, even though I'm sober for the time being, and . . .”

“And what?”

“. . . plan to stay that way—at least until the outcome is determined by a higher authority, and I don't mean Wolf Riker, thank God, although, if it were up to him we'd move faster, much faster, to the promised land—Kansas.”

“I've never met anyone like him.”

“There is no one like him—except maybe, his brother is close.”

“Brother?”

“His name is Dirk,” Picard nodded, “and join me in praying that we don't meet him—at least not until this drive is over.”

“Why not?”

“Not because the world wouldn't be better off without the two of them—but God only knows how many of us they'd take with them. However, after the drive it would most likely be just the two of them.”

“How did it start?”

“How did it start with Cain and Abel? It's a long story and I don't know all of it, nobody does. I guess Pepper knows more of it than anybody, and . . .”

“And what?”

“I'm tired. Haven't had much sleep. Maybe some other time.”

“Good night, doctor, and—thanks for all you're doing for Flaxen.”

“You're welcome . . . and I am doing it mostly for her . . . but also to show Wolf Riker that . . . well, never mind.”

As I left that wagon and proceeded to my quarters, I witnessed from a distance something I didn't need to remind me of Wolf Riker's prowess.

Riker was on his mount, Bucephalus, when French Frank rode up next to him and spoke.

There were only a few words exchanged by the two men, words I could not hear, when quicker than a cobra's strike, Wolf Riker slapped French Frank with a backhanded blow that sent the man literally flying off his saddle and hard upon the ground.

For less than an instant, even though dazed, French Frank moved his right hand toward his holstered gun.

Riker looked down with contempt. In that microsecond it seemed that French Frank's future would be over.

But his hand froze in mid-motion—then trembled.

Wolf Riker could have killed him, and might have—if he didn't need him and all of us—for the drive.

Without any apparent signal from the rider, Bucephalus turned and slowly moved away.

As Wolf Riker approached, then went past me, I wanted to avoid looking at him, but was unable, impelled by fear and fascination.

He went by as if I didn't exist.

And I wasn't so sure that I, or any of this, did.

Maybe I had already passed through the gates of hell.

I barely managed to make my way to my quarters, if you could so identify the area beneath the cook wagon. At least it was far enough away so that I did not have to suffer the odor from Cookie, who slept inside the wagon.

That night I dove into the deepest sleep of my life, half hoping that I would never awaken.

But awaken I did, from a kick by Cookie, to discover that the money in my pocket was no longer in my pocket, which had been turned inside out.

Besides being my immediate superior, it was evident that Cookie was a thief.

I had neither the time, nor the inclination—I guess the cowboys would call it “guts”—to confront Cookie while we were preparing breakfast and particularly while the drovers were within sight and hearing distance. The truth is, I was afraid the outcome might prove embarrassing—or worse—to me.

I didn't like the way Cookie handled the knives he worked with—or the surly look in his eyes when they met mine—even though I did my utmost to avoid eye contact while we labored, carrying out my part of the procedure:

Setting a blazing fire along a trench—placing the heavy Dutch ovens and lids where they would heat—dropping in hunks of beef tallow—cutting the steaks—building the biscuits while the fragrance of hot coffee rose from the large fire pit—and then serving the grub while the drovers sat or squatted down and devoured their morning meal.

As each man finished, he dropped his dirty plates and implements into the wrecking pan, saddled up, and repaired to his assigned section of the herd, urging the cattle along as Cookie and I washed and dried the dishes.

During all this time I had seen no sign of Wolf Riker.

Since Cookie and I were alone, I thought it time to broach the subject of my missing money.

I wasn't sure of the exact amount. I had won just over four hundred dollars, however, there were expenses—the hotel bill and other incidentals. But I knew the roll in my pocket had included two one hundred dollar bills, several twenties, fives, and singles—more than three hundred dollars.

“There's something I'd like to talk to you about, Cookie.”

“All right, but make it fast and keep working.”

“Very well. It's about a financial matter.”

“How's that?”

“When I retired last night there was a roll of bills in my pocket, over three hundred dollars. This morning the pocket was turned inside out and the money was gone. I'd like to . . .”

Before I finished he had picked up a dirty, wet towel and, with a swift stroke, slapped me hard across the face.

And in his other hand, he held a gleaming carving knife pointed against my breastbone.

“You button up, Guth! 'Cause if I ever hear you say one word about it to anybody I'll rip you from belly to brisket. You understand!?”

I could feel the point of the blade pressing into my flesh and thought it best to pursue the matter no further—at least for the time being.

“I . . . I understand.”

“Good. You finish up here while I hitch the team.”

As he walked away I could hear him grumble.

“Miserable specimen of human scum. Pukin' weasel . . . callin' me a thief.”

For an instant I thought about picking up one of the other knives and . . .

But the instant and the thought passed with my doing nothing.

“Mr. Guthrie.” It was a strong, yet sympathetic voice, and it belonged to the one I had heard called Simpson. A big man, rugged, but with gentle eyes and a Scandinavian complexion.

He had obviously seen, and probably heard, much of what had just occurred between Cookie and me. He was tightening the cinch on his appaloosa.

“No,” I replied with resignation. “I'm ‘Guth,' Cookie's assistant.”

“You're a man. The same as you've always been.”

“Wolf Riker's right about one thing. I've never been much of a man.”

“You never will be if you don't stand up to him. Him and Cookie and the rest of them. The more they can take advantage of you, the more they will.”

“You expect me to beat the entire bunch of them?”

“You don't have to. Just Cookie, at first. If they see you do that you will have earned some respect. Stand up to him. Don't let him break you. That's what he's trying to do, because you're better than he is, better than all of them—and smarter. Fight 'em any way you can. You've got an advantage”—Simpson pointed to my temple—“your brain. Never give up . . . Mr. Guthrie.”

“Yes.” I did my best to summon up at least a patina of acknowledgment, if not bravado. “Well, no matter what happens, thank you, Mr. Simpson.”

Before I could do or say anything more, he had mounted with ease for such a big man, and rode toward the herd on his Appaloosa.

The herd. I watched as it began to stir and move—as it was made to move by riders at the point and flanks and too far away for me to see, the drag men who prodded the trailers onward. Wave after wave of ignorant beasts. Teaming tons of bawling beef between hoof and horn, heading north to their doom if Riker succeeded in his obsessive mission to deliver his moveable empire to Kansas—and me along with it. If Wolf Riker succeeded they would be slaughtered, methodically sectioned and sliced, shipped to feed hungry bellies hundreds of miles away. That was their fate and destiny, if they reached their destination—Kansas.

But what of the fate and destiny of Christopher Guthrie? A so-called gentleman among bitter, war-beaten brutes, led by the bitterest brute of them all?

Kansas or Canada? What difference did it make? A thousand miles or five thousand miles? It might as well have been as far away as the moon. What chance did I have to survive—or to escape?

And if I did escape, what about Flaxen Brewster? If she survived her wounds, what was the fate of my nominal fiancée, who was actually a thief—or at least a thief's accomplice, even though he was her father?

What was my moral obligation to her?

All this flashed through my mind in a mad moment before I realized that my first, if not only, obligation was to myself.

To survive.

As Simpson said, to fight them any way I could. To use my brain. To never give up.

But it was easier for Simpson to give advice than for me to take it; however, I did appreciate his good intention and concern. Even though I didn't know the intentions or concerns, or, in some cases, even the names, of all the drovers, I had begun to separate those whose society I cared to share, from those whom I preferred to avoid. The latter category far outnumbered the former.

In my estimation, Dr. Picard had proved himself a good man, so, it seemed, had Simpson. I would have liked to know what French Frank had said to Wolf Riker that provoked our leader to slap him out of the saddle and come close to killing him. There was something about Reese that set him apart from the rest. I had noticed that he had pocketed the Bible from which Riker did not read over the graves of the buried bodies. As for Leach, I had heard Riker refer to him as “our young prison graduate,” but . . . just then I saw something—someone—who stopped me short in my appraisal.

Wolf Riker, not far away, smoking his black cigar, astride his horse Bucephalus, and looking in my direction.

I wondered how long he had been there and how much he had seen and heard.

Within that instant I dismissed all of my brave words and thoughts—and started to go back to my duties as Cookie's lackey.

But this time something else stopped me—a sound—sounds—terrifying. Inhuman. Beastly. Born of pain and frenzy. I did not know it at the time but morning is one of the most dangerous periods on the drive. The cattle stirred from the night's sleep, each animal seeking its own space for the long miles ahead, irritable, stumbling and still half asleep, prodded, tottering, crashing into each other with long razor sharp horns ripping into hide and flank.

Instinctively, I turned to the direction of the sound and fury.

One of the larger beasts, bellowing, screaming, bucking, its horns ripping into whatever other beast it could strike in its madness.

One of its eyes had been ripped out of its socket by the dagger-like horn of another steer and hung loosely across the face of the crazed animal.

By now several riders including Riker had moved closer to the commotion, so had Pepper and several others on foot. I wondered why one of them did not shoot the animal out of its misery and end the damage it was inflicting, but at the same time realized that a gunshot might instantly send the herd into a stampede.

All the drovers knew well enough not to fire a shot as the crazed animal ripped at anything that moved within striking distance, but none knew what he could do about the raging animal—none but Riker.

He flung away his cigar, spurred his horse alongside the snorting beast, leaped from his saddle, landed with both hands on the horns, twisted its huge head with the great power of his bull shoulders and body until the steer crashed hard onto the ground.

“Pepper! Knife!” Wolf Riker's voice tore the air.

He lifted his right arm high above him—held the beast at bay with one hand and the force of his body—as Pepper slapped the handle of a unique knife into Riker's palm, then Wolf Riker plunged the salient, glinting blade again and again into the throat, then brain, of the trembling beast. One last spasm, and it trembled no more.

Neither I, nor, I dare say, any of the other men, had ever witnessed such a feat of raw strength and confidence, ever in our lives. Reese, French Frank, Simpson, Leach, Chandler, and the rest.

We stared in awe as Wolf Riker rose, handed Pepper his bloody knife, and took a steady step toward Cookie.

“We'll have the son of a bitch for supper,” Riker said, then walked toward his wagon.

I looked down at the twisted heap, with one eye still dangling from its vacant socket, and thought to myself, not I.

I'm not having that son of a bitch for supper.