The Range Wolf (24 page)

The three of us went directly to Dr. Picard's wagon. Karl Simpson was asleep, or unconscious. At any rate we knew he could not hear what was being said—and decided—in whispers.

I couldn't help admonishing Flaxen.

“Why did you tell him about yourself?”

“I couldn't stand his arrogant self-assurance any longer. I had to prove him wrong about something, and besides, I'm tired of trying to live a lie.”

“Look, you two,” Picard said, “never mind what already happened. The question is what are you going to do about it . . . and that rat Cookie?”

“You're right of course, doctor. And it's not only Cookie. We've got a madman in charge, a mutinous bunch that's liable to do anything—killer Comancheros ahead of us, and Wolf Riker's brother probably not far behind. It's a powder keg that could blow up anytime. We've only got one chance. The sooner we get away from here the better.”

“Away?” Flaxen shrugged. “Where?”

“When Riker caught me going over his maps, he let slip that there was a crossing station along the Cimarron a hundred and fifty miles northwest.”

“A hundred and fifty miles,” Picard emphasized.

“It's a desperate gamble, but a better chance than staying here.”

“What about the Comancheros?” Picard noted.

“They're less likely to spot the three of us than six or seven thousand head of cattle.”

“That's true,” he nodded. “But if you go—it's just the two of you.”

“But why . . .”

“I'm old and weak. I'd only slow you down and you'd need more supplies. You're better off without me and you know it.”

“What about you, Flaxen? Will you risk it?”

She smiled.

“Sometime ago I said you'd do the deciding. ‘
Wither thou goest, I will go.
'”

The next day I managed to secrete supplies in a burlap bag without Cookie, or anybody else noticing—or so I thought.

“Thinking of taking a little side trip?” Alan Reese said when the two of us were alone.

But to my relief he quickly added—

“Don't worry, Mr. Guthrie. Your secret is safe with me. I think it's the best course for you, and I'll even do what I can to help.”

“Will you come with us, Flaxen and me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I broke an agreement once, actually a vow. I have no intention of breaking my agreement with Wolf Riker, no matter what I think of him.”

“You said you are an unfrocked priest. Would you mind telling me why?”

“No, I would not mind. They say confession is good for the soul. Years ago, when I was a young priest, there was this younger couple, both friends of mine, who had asked me to marry them. Of course I agreed. The night before the wedding she was brutally murdered. All the evidence pointed to him. Blood. The weapon. He was convicted and sentenced to hang. But another man who had coveted her, and was now himself sick and dying, came to me and confessed, to wipe the sin from his immortal soul. He knew I could not break the sanctity of the confessional. But I did. I could not bear to see that young boy hang for something he did not do. So I broke the law of the church in order to save his life.”

“But surely the church wouldn't . . .”

“Wouldn't unfrock me? I don't know. I didn't wait to find out. But I knew that I'd broken my vow, so . . . I unfrocked myself. I took off my collar and ran away . . . to Texas, as good a place as any for a sinner to hide.”

“I'm not of your religion, but I don't believe that being a priest has anything to do with a frock or a collar—or that you have any reason to hide.”

“Then why is it I see a shadow on the wall, where there is no wall?”

“I don't understand.”

“I hope you never do, Mr. Guthrie. I hope you never do. Yes, Mr. Guthrie, I'm staying here. But I will help you.”

 

 

And he did.

 

 

The next day was fraught with anxiety and trepidation.

Cookie kept casting glances at both Flaxen and me that he meant to be meaningful reminders.

And whether it was my imagination or not, it seemed to me that some of the drovers looked at her, also in a different light—Leach, Dogbreath, French Frank. I couldn't help wondering if Cookie might have voiced, or hinted at some implication regarding her gentility.

Wolf Riker spent most of the day aboard Bucephalus, without seeming to have suffered any residual effects from the previous night's attack.

Pepper uttered not a word to anyone, not even to the animals pulling Riker's wagon.

Unfortunately, Karl Simpson took a turn for the worse. Dr. Picard believed that an infection had set in, and there was nothing he could do except dose his patient with laudanum to ease the pain until the end.

Supper was nearly unbearable, and I did my best to suppress the telltale quivering fingers of both hands as I served the drovers for what I hoped would be the last time on the drive.

How we would have fared without the help of Alan Reese is impossible to say, or think.

He had both our horses, Tobacco and Bluebell, saddled and laden with canteens and supplies, waiting at a prearranged spot a couple hundred yards from camp.

As Flaxen and I mounted, I looked down at him and whispered.

“Thank you. And please . . . say a prayer for us, padre.”

“It's been a long time since anyone called me . . . that.”

“But not a long time since you prayed.”

Then we rode in the direction I hoped was northwest.

As we rode slowly away in what might have been a romantic moonlight, but in this case wasn't, I couldn't help thinking it was tantamount to leaving a large ship in distress with a maniacal captain and mutinous crew on a storm-torn sea, and boarding a compassless dinghy in that same stabbing tempest.

And instead of a liquid horizon in an infinite horizontal track, we faced a vast uncharted terrain—an endless earthen patchwork quilt of soil and stone, mountain and meadow, hillock and crust.

It was as if the Creator couldn't make up His mind what to do with it, or what it should look like, so He let the pieces fall where they may in a helter-skelter patchwork of some of this and some of that.

It was no wonder that the government gave it to the Indians. The wonder was that the Indians accepted it. But for us it was not only nature's contention—God only knew what human hostility might strike, be it Cheyenne, Kiowa, Comanche, or Comanchero. And there was the possibility that Wolf Riker would dispatch a couple of his drovers to bring us back to face the consequences of desertion as an example of what would happen to anyone else with the same idea.

All that on one side of the equation; on the other, the fact that Flaxen and I were together and away from what might have been a grimmer fate due to Cookie's invidious tongue, the drovers' lust, and Wolf Riker's caprice.

We rode at a moderate pace to preserve the strength of the animals, fed them the grain I had taken with us, whenever and wherever there was nothing on the ground for them to graze on. And the two of us ate more sparingly than we had ever eaten before—and drank even more sparingly, until the canteens were less than half full and more than half empty.

On the third day and near night, just as a cold wind whipped across our sand-streaked faces, we came upon the first sight of shelter.

A cave.

A natural hollowed out portion of a rocky embankment not far ahead.

A few minutes later, after leaving Flaxen and the animals outside, I entered, gun drawn, and examined the gritrock floor and uneven walls of the miniature cavern.

No sign of life. No wolves. No coyotes. No bats.

And a short time after that, a fire with warmth enough for the unsaddled horses, and for Flaxen and me.

The cave was, to put it mildly, aromatic from previous tenants, probably wolves, coyotes, and bats, but under the circumstances, it suited us better than the not-so-great and oh-so-cold outdoors.

After a less than hearty meal, Flaxen moved closer, close enough for me to put my arms around her, and for her to return the favor.

“Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes”—a reflection of the pent-up passion in mine.

Each of us held the future in each other's arms—if we had a future. The only thing we really knew—we had tonight.

And we both knew that what happened after that was inevitable.

In a way, so was what happened the next morning—waking up to guns pointed at both of us.

The guns were each in the right hand of George Leach and French Frank—and on their faces, grins—not of good will.

“Well,” Leach said, “nice, cozy setup, while it lasted—but the gimcrack's over.”

“I thought Wolf Riker might send somebody after us, but I never figured it'ud be you two.”

“Oh, Wolf Riker didn't send us.”

“He didn't?”

“Hell, no. We quit on him. Just like you did.” Leach smiled at Flaxen through his perpetual snarl. “Well, not exactly like you, Guth. You got more companionable company than either French Frank or me—so far.”

I did my best to ignore the remark.

“And you just happened to stumble on this cave and us.”

“Not likely. You weren't all that hard to follow after Cookie told us he heard Riker tellin' Pepper about that crossin' station to the northwest.”

“Cookie, huh?”

“Seemed like a good idea—getting' outta there—better than meetin' up with them Comancheros.”

“Then I'm surprised there aren't more of you.”

“Hell, no. Figured it'ud be best to sneak off, just the two of us, better than a few more of us facin' Riker's guns and that son of a bitch Pepper in a showdown.”

“Very judicious.”

“What's that mean?”

“Smart.”

“We thought so. Didn't we, Frank?”

French Frank didn't bother to answer. His eyes never left Flaxen.

“Oh, by the way, Guth,” Leach went on, “you shudda seen Riker when he found out you was gone—like he had a face fulla crawlin' blue snakes. Thought he was gonna throw a fit. Could hardly keep from shudderin'. First started out in a whisper. ‘Traitor—Traitor'—then he gritted his teeth and hollered ‘TRAITOR!' There's nobody I can trust!'—then he seen Pepper lookin' at him and he sorta calmed down some; but, did he get his hands on you, I wouldn't want to stand in your boots, bub. Come to think on it—I wouldn't want to stand in your boots right now—'course, I do imagine you had some good times with the
Missy
here—with your boots off.”

Leach was the only one laughing. French Frank's attention was still absorbed by Flaxen Brewster.

While Leach laughed, I was gratified that I had remembered something Pepper had once said.

“And,” Leach's laugh had dissolved into a grin again, “when ol' Doc Picard told him that Simpson was dead, he commenced to smile, then laugh. ‘Good! Good!' he said, ‘there is some ret . . . retrib . . . bu . . .'”

“Retribution?”

“Yeah, that's it—ret-rib-you-sion. Then that short-bit trail boss, Reese, asked about buryin' Simpson. ‘I don't care what you do with him,' Riker says. ‘But this outfit moves in fifteen minutes. ' And we did, but some time later, French Frank and me, we moved in a different direction—and here we are—all nice and cozy, right Frank?”

“Right.” For the first time French Frank's look turned away from Flaxen and aimed at me. “And I ain't forgot that fast one you pulled on me when I took that tumble, you bastard, and now it's my turn to pull somethin' on you, somethin' you'll remember long as you live and that ain't gonna be long.”

“Sure, Frank,” Leach said, “he'll get his, but first . . . there's one other thing, Guth, that Cookie told us.”

“What's that?”

“About her. She ain't your ‘fiancée.' Are you,
Missy
? She's your floozie.”

“Leach . . .”

“Mighty greedy on your part, Guth. Keepin' her all to yourself instead of sharin' her . . . favors. We're part human, too, you know.”

“Are you, Leach?”

“Sure I am.” He winked at her. “And you know which part, don't you,
Missy
?”

“Leach, I swear . . .”

“You won't be around long enough to swear to anythin', pretty plug. All right, we've had enough talk. Now then,
Missy
. Take it off.” He pointed with the gun. “The ring . . . his mother's ring.” Leach laughed. “Take it off.”

“I tried before,” Flaxen said, and pulled at the ring. “It's too tight.”

Then she put the ring finger in her mouth, licked it roundly with her lips, and extended her hand toward him.

“You try.”

Leach's eyes were locked on her, just as were French Frank's.

“Sure.”

Leach moved the gun to his left hand and with his right began slowly to work the ring free.

He did. Savoring every moment, every movement, every touch. Then he put the ring in his pocket.

“Is that all?” She asked.

“Is that all, what?”

“Is that all you want to take off?”

A look of pleasant disbelief came across Leach's face as her body and face moved closer to him, until her lips almost touched his.

“Flaxen!” I started to move. “You . . .”

But she interrupted.

“What'd you say to him?” Leach gritted.

“It's French.”

“So it's French. What's it mean?”

“Means he's a beached whale—all washed up.”

Leach grinned as her face moved closer to his.

“That's right, Leach,” French Frank said. “Take off her clothes. There's enough for the two of us!”

“No, there's not, George,” Flaxen said in a hushed whisper. “You and me. I'll go with you, but just you and me.” Her arms were around him, fingers caressing his neck. “We'll make up for the time you spent in prison.”

“You won't go anyplace without me!” French Frank took a step forward, gun pointed.

But Leach whirled and fired, once, twice, and as French Frank buckled, Flaxen pushed Leach away and cried out.

“Christopher!”

The gun was already in my hand with shots echoing in the cave along with Leach's curse . . .

“You son of a bi . . .”

As he fell I didn't know whether he was cursing Flaxen or me . . . and I didn't care.

I was beholden to Pepper's long ago advice, which went something like:

“Either sleep with your gun or . . . or keep it handy.”