The Range Wolf (2 page)

As she moved away I almost had second thoughts . . . almost.

Instead, I finished my bourbon, lit a cigar, and walked outside to cool off and breathe a little fresh air while I smoked.

Not far from the entrance I heard voices. First a female voice.

“It must be here . . . I felt the chain break and . . .”

Then a man's voice, a distinguished voice.

“For heaven's sake, Flaxen, I'll buy you another one. I don't propose to hunker here all night.”

“Oh, hello,” she said as she looked up at me.

Even in the dark I could discern a lady of quality—her mien, her dress, her voice, and especially her face, a face of natural beauty and aristocracy.

“Good evening,” I replied.

“We have lost Louie,” she shrugged. “He's an elephant, not a real elephant of course. An ivory charm, with a diamond for an eye.”

She held up a broken chain.

“You see,” she continued, “the chain broke and Louie's lost. He's always been such good luck.”

I dropped my cigar, stooped, and squinted.

“Shouldn't be that difficult to find an elephant,” I remarked.

“Find him, my friend”—the man with the distinguished voice ran his hand along the boardwalk—“and name your reward.”

“One million dollars!” I said as, smiling, I held up Louie.

“The banking business is good”—he smiled back and rose—“but not that good.”

He was tall and somewhat frail, gray haired, and obviously a gentleman of quality, but I was studying the young lady.

“Then I'll settle for an introduction,” I said. “I'm Christopher Guthrie.”

The man held out his hand.

“Reginald Brewster. My daughter, Flaxen.”

We shook hands, then I extended the charm to Flaxen. In the exchange our fingers touched for a moment.

“And this,” I smiled, “of course, is Louie.”

“Yes,” she nodded and laughed.

“Well,” I responded, “now that we've all been properly introduced . . .”

Suddenly, two burly specimens appeared.

“Not quite all,” one of the men barked. “Sergeant Baker and Officer O'Bannion, Baton Rouge Police.” Sergeant Baker produced a badge.

“My congratulations,” I said. “And what can we do for you?”

“Nothing,” Sergeant Baker bellowed, “but we're going do to something for you.”

“What, may I ask?” I inquired.

Both men moved quickly and efficiently. Officer O'Bannion grabbed Reginald Brewster and pinned back both arms. Sergeant Baker reached into Mr. Brewster's coat pocket.

“Get your wallet back,” he said.

And he did indeed bring forth my wallet and handed it to me.

“Mr. Brewster?!” I blurted and glanced at his daughter.

“
Booster
is more like it,” the sergeant said, “and they're about the best team in the business. We've had our eye on 'em for some time, and if you'll testify, this time they'll both go to jail.”

“Please . . . please, Mr. Guthrie,” Flaxen Brewster pleaded, “you won't testify against us. It'll mean prison. My father and I will . . .”

“Your father and you will get exactly what you deserve.” I restored my wallet to where it belonged.

“We'll book 'em and let you know when the trial will be set to take place,” Sergeant Baker informed.

“How long might that be?”

“Maybe next week, maybe next month, but they'll both be in the cooler until then. Judge Crockett's got a lot on his docket.”

Crockett's docket to the contrary, I had other plans, which I didn't intend to change.

“Sergeant Baker, may I speak to you privately?”

“Sure,” Baker said. “Step over here.”

“Sergeant,” I whispered, “I'm leaving town tomorrow.”

“Not if you want to see these two grifters go to jail.”

“It is more urgent that I get to Houston. I've made arrangements for connections from there and I can't change those arrangements. I'm sorry.”

“Damn! Too damn bad,” he said just above a whisper. “You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Well, then I'll have to do the next best thing.”

Sergeant Baker led us back to the trio.

“You two grifters are damn lucky,” he said. “The gentleman has decided not to testify against you . . .”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Guthrie,” Flaxen Brewster sighed with genuine relief.

“But that doesn't end it,” he went on. “Unless you're out of my jurisdiction before the sun sets tomorrow, I'll make up some reason to slam you in the cooler anyhow. Now get out of here before he changes his mind. Let go of him, O'Bannion.”

O'Bannion did, but roughly, so roughly that Mr. Brewster nearly lost his balance.

“We're grateful to you, Mr. Guthrie,” Flaxen whispered. “Eternally grateful.”

Father and daughter made their way to the entrance of the Grand Palace with amazing dignity, under the circumstances.

Sergeant Baker took something out of his pocket and handed it to me.

“Here's my card. If you change your mind, stop by the station. I'll be there.”

“I'm much obliged, officers. Thank you again and good night.”

As the two minions of the law walked away, I could hear the sergeant grumble, “Damn grifters.”

 

 

Inside the Grand Palace, as I moved past the bar area, I saw Francine DuBois engaged in amiable conversation with a young gentleman who had an anticipatory look on his flushed face.

At least, I thought to myself, with Francine DuBois, unlike with Flaxen Brewster, you could judge the book by its binding.

Upstairs, I entered my room and closed the door. The room was dark, dimly lit by gaslight. As I moved toward the fixture to adjust the light and make an entry into my journal, the room abruptly got darker and I descended into that darkness from a blow across my forehead.

Stunned into semi-conscious, I could barely make out the figures of two men. The blow giver stood by while his accomplice flung open my coat and removed my wallet.

I suppose if I had mustered some sort of valiant effort I might have managed to put up some sort of resistance, maybe even overpower one of the intruders, but under those circumstances, I neither could, nor wanted, to muster anything resembling any effort, valiant, or otherwise.

One encounter with whatever battered my skull would suffice. I feigned complete unconsciousness and hoped for the best, whatever that might be.

It turned out to be a wise decision.

Without further ado both figures quickly left the room and left me still stunned on the floor.

How long I remained there I didn't know—or care.

When I finally managed to get to my feet, weave and wobble to the bed, I realized that the bandits were not entirely successful.

The winnings from the poker game were still in the left pocket of my trousers and the diamond ring and necklace around my throat.

But the bastards had made off with the $500 and my initialed Morocco wallet.

It's strange, the thoughts that buzz through a body's brain when that body has been disoriented by an unexpected concussion. Thoughts such as: what in the hell am I doing far from the trappings of civilized society in a benighted backwater called Baton Rouge, the victim of a series of scams and slams, perpetrated by female beauties and male beasties? And which and how many of those perpetrators were responsible for my current condition?

The list of possible conspirators included: an amiable, portly loser at poker, one Gaylord Brisbane—a rather attractive, over made-up denizen of the saloon, who called herself Francine DuBois, and who might well have had a couple of accomplices in her nocturnal operations—a lady of quality and her distinguished forbearer, Flaxen and Reginald Brewster, respectively, who were not what they seemed—and much to my dismay, even a brace of oversized minions of the law, Sergeant Baker and Officer O'Bannion, one, or both of whom, well might employ the sort of sap with which to coerce criminals, or pick up a little side money on their rounds—and then there might be some anonymous observers, whom I did not observe, but who preyed on simpletons such as I, who were lucky at cards.

After such random thoughts, after how long I lay there I do not know, I decided that the riddle was too complicated and not worthy of pursuit in the time I had left before the stagecoach departed for Houston in the morning.

I would chalk up my losses to experience and the warning of the West, and get the hell out of Baton Rouge while the getting was good.

 

 

The next morning I was in no mood to make an entry in my journal. That would have to wait. After a hearty breakfast, I paid my hotel bill and made arrangements to have my baggage delivered to the stagecoach depot in time to board and continue my westward trek.

To my great surprise, at the depot, standing beside the stagecoach, were two familiar individuals, Sergeant Baker and Officer O'Bannion.

As I approached I saw another fellow passenger step into the carriage, but neither the lawmen nor I paid any attention to the traveler.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I greeted. “It was very nice of you to come see me off.”

“Good morning,” Sergeant Baker said. “That's not why we're here, but”—he pointed to the bruise on my forehead—“what happened to you?”

“Oh, I ran into something.” I smiled. “Nothing serious.”

“You ought to be more careful,” Officer O'Bannion suggested.

“Good advice.” I nodded, and as I did, I noticed two people standing across the street.

I hadn't noticed if they had arrived together or separately, but for the moment they stood like a pair of bookends—and those bookends were looking across the street at me.

The bookends were Francine DuBois and the portly gentleman loser, Gaylord Brisbane.

“Good luck, Mr. Guthrie,” said Sergeant Baker and offered me his hand.

We shook hands, then I repeated the gesture with Officer O'Bannion. Both had hands befitting Paul Bunyan.

At that point Miss DuBois and Mr. Brisbane parted company and moved away in separate directions, perhaps having ascertained that I was leaving town without further consort with the police.

As I started for the stagecoach it occurred to me that the watchdog duo had told me why they weren't there, but not why they were.

So I thought I'd inquire of Sergeant Baker.

“If not to see me off, do you mind telling me why you're at the stage depot?”

Sergeant Baker pointed his thumb toward two other passengers who were already inside.

Flaxen and Reginald Brewster were seated on the rear seat of the stagecoach, looking straight ahead.

“You're gonna have a couple of familiar companions,” Sergeant Baker added.

“So I see,” I said.

“Ought to make for an interesting trip,” he remarked.

Truer words were never spoken East or West of the Hundredth Meridian.

And so I boarded and bade a silent farewell to the community of Baton Rouge.

But before we departed the two teamsters who were to deliver us to Houston poked their respective heads through the windows of the coach and introduced themselves.

“I'm Slim,” said the driver.

The description might have been accurate years ago, but his present girth belied that delineation.

“Baldy,” chimed the fellow with the rifle.

Whether that was the case I could not determine at the time, since his pate was covered by a sun bleached crown.

But it didn't much matter since both seemed competent and confident.

“We've got a ways to go”—Slim spat out a load of tobacco juice—“and the road'll get bumpy at times, but we've been there before and we'll do 'er again, so sit there and get acquainted for the next few days.

“Now me and Baldy'll only take you as far as Houston. From there, if you're aimin' to go on, you'll connect to points west as far as San Francisco. Now Butterfield's been in business since '58 and has the best record of any line anywhere. We'll be stoppin' at the way stations for food and sleep and relief of the innards, but if you're in need of relief along the road just bang on the side of the coach and we'll accommodate.”

I couldn't help but notice Flaxen blanch a bit as Slim spoke and then let fly another stream of tobacco juice.

As we rolled past the outer limits of Baton Rouge, the fourth passenger tipped his hat and smiled toward Flaxen and her father, who was sipping from a silver flask and trying to stifle a cough.

“Amos Yirbee, ma'am. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He spoke with a noticeable Southern accent.

Clean-cut, in his early thirties, well wardrobed in a dark suit, coal-black flat-brimmed hat, white shirt, and black string tie.

There was an awkward pause.

“Flaxen Brewster . . . my father, Mr. Brewster.”

Amos Yirbee turned to me and smiled.

“Christopher Guthrie. Glad to meet you, Mr. Yirbee.”

That was the extent of the “get acquainted” conversation for quite a while.

Mr. Yirbee removed a Bible from his inside coat pocket and commenced to read to himself.

Mr. Brewster, between coughing spells, went to work on his silver flask, which seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of liquid, while Flaxen and I stole silent glances at each other as the stagecoach proceeded on its bumpy way west.

During those silent glances I couldn't help but recall a line from the Bard. Would that there'd been some “art to find the mind's construction in the face”!

Her face was perfectly constructed, beauty, delicacy, elegance, innocence—lustrous yellow hair, luminous blue-green eyes, and with delicate hands fitted with white traveling gloves—not the face and form of a grifter.

 

 

The overnight stops at the way stations were mostly devoid of conversation except for Slim and Baldy, who I finally discovered was indeed devoid of hirsute atop his shiny dome.

But on the third night after supper, as I lit a cigar and Mr. Yirbee opened his Bible, I did make comment.

“Sir,” I said, “you seem to be quite interested in that volume.”

“That's why they call it the Good Book.”

“Did you grow up with it?”

“Only since the war.”

I couldn't help notice that Flaxen Brewster was listening.

“That's when you found religion?” I asked.

“Salvation. After the carnage at Yellow Tavern I swore I'd never carry a gun again. Instead I'd carry this.” He touched the open Bible.

“North or South?”

“South. You?”

“North, but . . . not on any battlefield. Washington. Military justice.”

“They also serve,” Mr. Yirbee said and smiled.

“What part are you reading?” I pointed to the Good Book.

“‘My lips shall not speak wickedness, nor my tongue utter deceit.'”

“That's Job, isn't it?”

“It is.”

“He had his troubles.”

“But it turned out all right. The Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before. ‘Job died, being old and full of days.'”

“You a preacher, Mr. Yirbee?”

“I will be in Prescott. There's a small congregation waiting for me.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Yirbee rose, still holding his Bible, and retired to his quarters.

Flaxen Brewster sat for a moment or so finishing her coffee, until she heard her father coughing in another room, then she also rose.

“Good night,” I said, half lifting myself from the chair.

“Good night . . . and Mr. Guthrie . . .”

“Yes?”

“On this trip . . . please, please don't interpret my silence . . . or that of my father, as a sign of our ingratitude for what you did for us in Baton Rouge. He's a sick man now . . . and I . . . I . . .

“Miss Brewster, I expect no explanation. Many things happened in Baton Rouge that I'd prefer to forget. I suggest we both do just that.”

“Very well, Mr. Guthrie.”

When she left the room I sat there with my cigar until there was little of it left.

It occurred to me that none of the passengers on the stagecoach carried a gun.

Only a Bible.