The Range Wolf (8 page)

It had been an engrossing day and night, but the night was not yet over.

Far from over.

So I discovered as I took just a few steps from Wolf Riker's wagon and was slapped full across the face by a wet, dirty towel. The force of the impact knocked me off balance and nearly off my feet.

Of course I knew the identity of the blow giver before seeing the sight, or hearing the sound of his shrill voice.

“Why you skylarkin' scum. What were you doin' in there all that time?”

As I wiped the slough off my face, I did what I could to gather some semblance of dignity.

“Well, you see, Cookie, I was . . .”

Before I could finish any sort of explanation, true or false, I felt the impact of the wet, dirty towel across my face again.

“Damn you, Cookie, you ever do that again and I'll . . .”

“You'll what? With what? A gun? I don't see any. A knife? You ain't got one. Them frail fists? I don't think so. Now what was you doin' in there for so long? Was you talkin' about me?”

“We had more important matters to discuss.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as evolution, from monkey to . . .”

“Never mind that fancy talk, fancy pants . . . and what happened to them dirty sheets you was supposed to bring back?”

“They're still on Mr. Riker's bed and so is he. You want to go in and get them? There's the door, but I don't think he wants to be disturbed. Not tonight, so enter at your own risk.”

“Well, then . . .”

“Well then, what?”

Now it was Cookie's turn to gather some semblance of dignity, although I doubt if he knew what the word meant.

“Bring 'em back tomorrow mornin'.”

“Very well,
sirrah
. Any further instructions for the night?”

“You'll hear from me if there is.”

Eustice Munger turned and walked away carrying the wet, dirty towel.

I stood there cursing the filthy bastard, silently, of course . . . until a blade whined past my head and stuck into the wagon close by.

A figure with a limp appeared out of the darkness, moved past me and extracted the Bowie while I stood there stiff as a broomstick.

“The offer still stands,” Pepper said as he replaced the knife into its sheath.

“What . . . offer?” I managed.

“To borrow the Bowie . . . or my .44, if you prefer.

“And do what?”

“Settle Cookie's hash.”

I pointed toward Wolf Riker's wagon.

“Someone else suggested something like that just a few minutes ago.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“You and Mr. Riker seem to think alike.”

“Mostly. 'Cause 'til you do . . .”

“Do what?”

“Settle his hash, you're gonna keep gettin' slapped around . . . or worse.”

“You also suggest I kill him?”

“If it comes down to it, that's one solution.”

“Maybe there's another.”

“Maybe.”

“If I did kill him . . . who'd do the cooking? Did you ever think of that?”

“Don't tell me that's what's stoppin' you,” Pepper smiled. “'Cause if it is, there's a couple other fellas on the drive who've done some fryin'. Both Morales One and Two.”

“Well, that does make a difference.”

“Don't it, though.”

I didn't know whether Pepper—or for that matter, Riker—was serious, or just prodding.

“And just remember one thing,” Pepper added.

“What's that?”

“Like I said . . . the offer still stands.” He patted the handle of the Bowie and limped away.

I glanced back at Riker's wagon. The pain he endured as we were talking must have been overwhelming to have affected a man as powerful as he, the way it did. He very nearly lurched into his bunk. It probably would have felled an ordinary man.

But Wolf Riker was no ordinary man.

As I moved across camp I could not help but reflect on the day's events—from early that morning when Cookie discovered my journal—to Simpson's complaint about Cookie's coffee and his silence in the face of Wolf Riker's confrontation—to Riker's wearing out three horses while spurring the drive and almost wearing out all the drovers in the bargain.

Then at noon, Donavan's report of unshod pony tracks—Smoke and Chandler unable to trace the tracks or the whereabouts of the red riders of those animals.

Dr. Picard's guarded optimism of Flaxen Brewster's condition.

Tea and clean sheets for the wolf man, and the revelation of Wolf Riker's literary bent and philosophy—“
better to reign in hell than serve in heaven”
—the fact that Eustice Munger more than likely did me a favor in informing Riker of my journal—Riker's fascination at my own literary endeavors—his assent, and even cooperation, in my writing about his life and times—and then, that sudden shudder and jolt, striking a numbing blow that sent him stumbling to his bunk.

If Cookie did do me a favor by telling Riker of my journal, then he retaliated with a pair of slams across the face from a wet, dirty towel, while I took the blows without any overt requital.

But there was still the standing offer of Pepper's arsenal.

Something to think about. But at that time I was thinking about something else.

Someone else.

I knocked on the door of the wagon.

“Come in. Come in.”

I entered and closed the door behind me. The interior was dimly lit.

Dr. Picard sat at a table about to open an untapped bottle of whiskey. Flaxen Brewster lay in the bunk, delirious . . . muttering indistinctively.

“Yes. Do come in, Mr. Guthrie. I was just about to have my first drink since you joined the drive.”

“But why?”

“To celebrate.”

“Her recovery?”

Dr. Picard uncorked the whiskey bottle and smiled a confidential smile.

“No. But she
will
recover.”

“Then what?”

“I was about to celebrate the fact that for once . . . Wolf Riker was wrong.”

“About what?”

The doctor ceased smiling, lifted the bottle off the table, and pointed it toward Flaxen.

“Call her name.”

I moved closer to her.

“Flaxen . . . Flaxen . . . it's Christopher . . . Christopher Guthrie. Can you hear me?”

Her maundering became less halting and more distinguishable.

“Mr. Guthrie . . . please, Mr. Guthrie . . . you won't testify against us . . . you have your wallet back . . . the police . . . It'll mean prison . . . please . . . my father and I . . .”

Dr. Picard poured a drink into a tumbler and set the bottle on the table.

“So, the omniscient Wolf Riker was wrong . . . about her being a lady. It is ironic, isn't it?”

“Dr. Picard . . .”

“What I saved is a thief.”

His hand moved toward the tumbler; but I moved quicker and slid the glass away from him.

“The point is you saved her. Listen to me.”

“I'm listening.”

“Because of your skill a human life will go on living. Yes, Doctor, you saved her . . . and in a way I think she helped you.”

“I see what you mean,” Dr. Picard nodded. “Riker can't say that all my patients die.”

“No. He can't.”

“But . . . why the ring? The engagement ring on her finger. Why the fairy tale about her being your fiancée?”

“Riker called her a piece of fluff. What else might have followed if he, and the rest of them, knew the circumstances of our . . . meeting? I thought the ring and the ‘fairy tale' as you call it, might put her in a more beneficent light. I . . .”

“But the ring? Where . . .”

“My mother's. A keepsake.”

“Quite a gesture, Mr. Guthrie . . . a
beau geste.
”

“And you, Dr. Picard, since you've saved her life, will you do something else for her? As far as Wolf Riker, and everyone else is concerned, Flaxen Brewster is my fiancée.”

“But when he finds out that she's not . . .”

“He doesn't have to find out anything. Neither does anyone else on this drive.”

“They'll find out. There are no secrets . . .”

“No, they won't. Not from me . . . or you.”

“But when she recovers she'll . . .”

“When she recovers, I'll talk to her, we both will. It'll be all right. Let's leave her some dignity.”

“Dignity. I haven't heard . . . or even thought about that word in a long time. You know, Mr. Guthrie, there is something
sympathique
between us. Now I'd be pleased if you'd do me a favor.”

“What's that?”

Dr. Picard pointed at the table.

“Pour the whiskey in that glass . . . back into that bottle.”

“Do it yourself, doctor,” I smiled. “Your hand is certainly steady enough.”

“Yes.” He grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

It was the kind of morning writers write about. Livid. Limitless. The invitation to a perfect day. But I had had no time to make even a sentence entry into my journal.

It had been a short night.

And instead of a rooster's crowing, it was Cookie's cackling that proclaimed the coming dawn and the grind ahead.

I was at my usual station behind the serving table when I looked up and saw Wolf Riker's face directly in front of me and Pepper's whiskers directly behind him.

“Coffee and biscuit,” Riker said.

“Good morning, Mr. Riker, and how are you this morning?”

“If you're asking how I feel, Guth, I feel splendid.”

And he did, indeed, look splendid, with no aftereffect or even any hint of the seizure I had witnessed the night before. If anything, he seemed even more vital than usual this morning.

“By the way, Guth. I meant to ask you. Do you ride? Horses, I mean.”

“I have ridden horses, Mr. Riker”—I handed him his coffee and biscuit—“but not western saddle.”

“English? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How civilized . . . and impractical out here. Pepper, would you kindly pick a gelding out of the remuda for Guth?”

“Tobacco ought to fit the bill,” Pepper said.

“And have somebody throw on a saddle, a western saddle.”

“Sure, since that's all we got. He can use Donavan's.”

“Good. Have Dogbreath see to it. And Guth, take a turn or two along the herd. Think you can manage that with a western saddle?”

“I think so.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Riker.”

“What is it, Cookie?”

“I heard what you said about him joy ridin' out there . . .”

“Did I say anything about joy riding?”

“That's what it sounds like, and I need him around here to do a full day's work with me.”

“Well, you'll just have to do a full day's work without him. I want every man on this drive to be able to ride hard and shoot straight.”

Riker took a swallow of coffee and as he bit into the biscuit French Frank spoke up.

“Mr. Riker. There's something you ought to know.”

“What's that?”

“That saddle that belonged to Donavan now belongs to me.”

“How'd you come by it?”

“Gambled. Me and Latimer. I drew high card and won.”

“What're you going to do with two saddles? You got two asses?”

“No, I ain't. But it's my saddle fair and square.”

Riker took another swallow from the cup and looked at me.

“What do you say to that, Guth? Want to fight him for it?”

I did not want to fight French Frank, or anybody.

“No, sir. But I'll make a bet with you, French Frank.”

“What kind of bet?”

“How much do you think that saddle's worth?”

“I'd say up to twenty dollars.”

“Very well, I'll double that. Forty dollars if you win—against the saddle if I win. High card. You have a deck of cards with you?”

“Always.”

“I'll even sweeten the deal. You can draw two cards against my one. My card has to be higher than both of yours combined. Face cards don't count. Aces count one apiece.”

“I thought you wanted to get an early start this morning,” Chandler, the trail boss, reminded Wolf Riker. “We're burning daylight.”

“This won't take long,” I said. “If French Frank wants to bet.”

“Forty dollars,” French Frank scratched his chin. “I get two cards to your one. Right?”

“Right. Shall we get on with it? As Mr. Chandler said, ‘we're burning daylight.'”

French Frank produced a deck of well-worn cards from the pocket of his corduroy shirt.

“You're on. Who draws first?”

“You, of course. But . . .”

“But what?”

“May I shuffle?”

French Frank slapped the dank deck into my outstretched palm.

I proceeded to shuffle my Bureau of Military Justice shuffle and extended the deck.

French Frank drew a card and displayed a six of diamonds.

“Very good,” I nodded. “Draw again.”

He turned up a jack of clubs.

“Face card,” I smiled. “Doesn't count. Draw again.”

French Frank drew a three of hearts.

“Six and three,” I said, “totals nine. My draw.”

I picked my card and turned over the ten of spades.

“Well, it was close,” I remarked and replaced the winning card.

French Frank's mouth twisted downward. He thrust the deck back into his shirt pocket.

“I want to think this over. I think maybe you pulled a fast one.”

“Think it over later,” Riker said, “and get to work now.”

I thought something over, too.

Wolf Riker's attitude toward me—and the perceptible change that appeared to accompany it.

I wasn't quite sure why, but it definitely seemed like a change for the better.

However, as I had noted before, it was a long way to Kansas.

I stood by, watched and listened, as Dogbreath bridled, saddled, and cinched the paraphernalia onto the horse called Tobacco, which was indeed the color, or colors, of a bright leaf.

The procedure was simple enough for even a Harvard graduate to understand and execute.

Dogbreath's description of the horse was a trifle less intelligible, with such phrases as
bridle wise, clear footed, can carry the news to Mary, neck reiner, smooth mouthed, swimmer
—but I discerned that it all added up to a positive appraisal of the gelding called Tobacco.

I mounted and rode slowly past the kitchen wagon where Cookie and French Frank were carrying on a conversation, a conversation that most likely didn't concern the day's menu.

It did not take long to determine that, as Dr. Picard would say, Tobacco and I were
sympathique
. And almost the same could be said for the late Donavan's saddle. It was much more form fitting and comfortable than the pancake English version.

Within an hour Tobacco and I had ambled, trotted, and even galloped past many of the riders prodding the cattle: Smoke, Dogbreath, Reese, Latimer, Drago, Simpson, Morales One, Morales Two, and some of the rest, at first near, then farther away from the herd. At that point I reined up, patted Tobacco's neck, and even spoke a few flattering words to my newfound acquaintance and friend. That's when another acquaintance rode alongside and started an all too amiable conversation.

“How're you gettin' along, pard?” French Frank inquired. “You and ol' Tobac?”

“Ol' Tobac and I are getting along very compatibly, thank you.”

“Uh-huh. And the saddle?” He pointed.

“Also compatible.”

As he pointed, I noticed that he held a flexible, woven leather whip with a short stock about a foot long and with a loop attached to his wrist. The whip carried a lash of three or four heavy, loose thongs. Later I was to learn that it was called a quirt—and soon I was to learn one of the purposes for which it could be used.

“O.K., pard. Let's see how you and ol' Tobac can really get along.”

With that he thrashed Tobacco's rump, again and again, flogging the animal into a frenzy. Tobacco bolted ahead like a rifle shot, his hooves barely touching the ground.

French Frank roared with glee and laughter and chased after us for even more merriment. He managed to catch up to us, then, with all his might swung a backhanded blow with the quirt at Tobacco's head. I held the reins with one hand, reached out and took the blow on my wrist, wrapped my hand around the thongs, braced both feet into the stirrups and jerked back with every fiber of strength I could muster.

Once again French Frank flew off his mount, this time even more abruptly, and hit the ground even more violently than the time Wolf Riker backhanded him off the saddle.

Tobacco came to a halt and looked back, and I swear that if horses can laugh, Tobacco was laughing.

So was I.

French Frank was not laughing. He was sprawled on the hard ground, belly down, his hat a few feet from his head, his gun flipped out of its holster, and the dank deck of cards scattered galley west.

He was spitting dirt out of his mouth, maybe a tooth or two, and cursing a dark blue streak with the loop of the quirt still attached to his wrist.

I neck-reined Tobacco, and as we moved past French Frank on his hands and knees, I inquired.

“How're ya getting along, pard?”

Ol' Tobac and I didn't wait for an answer.