The Range Wolf (26 page)

The bursts grew louder as we rode to the sound of the guns.

And as we rode, there were hundreds of cattle spread across the terrain, cattle that scattered even more at the sound and sight of the charging horsemen.

Guns drawn and hooves pounding, we topped out over a rise, where down below the Comancheros were circling Indian style, shooting and screaming, around the beleaguered wagons. One of the wagons was on fire, the others, riddled with bullets.

Bodies of drovers and Comancheros lay in twisted patterns on the ground. Smoke rose from the burning wagon and the rifles and revolvers of defenders behind cover, and attackers on horseback.

“Ride, you Wolverines!” Dawson cried, his red scarf flowing from his throat, accompanied by dozens of other red-scared riders spurring their mounts toward the melee with gunfire ripping through the air, and much of it finding human targets.

The attackers were attacked—not by civilians and cowboys, but by ununiformed cavalry, except for the fluttering red scarves—seasoned veterans of Chickahominy, Brandy Station, Falls Church, Gettysburg, Yellow Tavern and Appomattox, determined and disciplined, who had defeated the valiant ranks of mounted Rebel brigades.

The Comancheros were caught between the gunfire of the defenders and the onslaught of what they must have thought were riders from hell.

The toll mounted as one after another was hit and fell. I rode next to Dirk Riker and Adam Dawson, each of us with reins in one hand and guns firing with the other.

It was fulfillment I had never felt—especially when I saw one of the Comancheros, who was wearing a black eye patch, struck by a bullet, twist off his mount, and fall hard and lifeless to the ground.

I wasn't the only one who saw it. The Comancheros, those who were still on their horses and able, turned and rode away in all directions.

Dirk Riker and his men let them ride.

Flaxen rode in after we had all dismounted and began to see what we could do to assist those who had survived the attack.

Dirk and I, followed by Flaxen and Dawson, moved toward a group who had taken cover around Wolf Riker's wagon, some still alive and others not as fortunate.

The bodies included those of Smoke, Cookie, and Dogbreath.

Among the more fortunate, but badly shaken, Dr. Picard. Next to him Alan Reese and nearby, Morales One and Morales Two.

But there was another body on the ground close to Wolf Riker.

Pepper, still with a gun in one hand and the Bowie knife in the other, and blood smeared on his lifeless body.

We knelt close to Wolf Riker, wounded at his right side, but breathing—his eyes staring vacantly, seemingly blind.

Dirk Riker leaned closer.

“Wolf . . . Wolf... can you see me? It's Dirk . . .”

“I knew . . . it would be,” Wolf Riker rasped.

“Doctor . . .?” I looked at Picard who had already started to probe at Riker's wound.

“I've seen worse,” Picard said.

“You sound . . . disappointed.” Wolf Riker tried to smile.

“Wolf,” I said, “you're indestructible.”

“Is that you . . . Guth?”

“Yes . . . and Flaxen.”

“You made it, huh. Good.”

“You're going to make it, too, Wolf,” Dirk Riker said. “But your cattle's scattered from here to breakfast.”

“
Our
cattle . . . I never took your name off the land grant.”

Dirk Riker reached out and touched his brother's face.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I don't know . . . maybe . . . I just figured . . . you'd find out sometime . . . one way or another.”

“Wolf,” Dirk said, “we'll get those beeves to Kansas.”

“Sure we will.”

“And Wolf,” Dr. Picard, took a breath, “about Pepper . . .”

“I know.” Wolf Riker barely nodded.

“Too bad,” Picard looked from Wolf to Dirk Riker, “Pepper didn't live to know about this.”

“He knows,” Alan Reese said.

I'm finally finishing the journal and the story of the Range Wolf Cattle Drive.

Wolf Riker turned out to be a different man from who I thought he was—even a different man from who
he
thought he was.

Since Horace Greeley likes a happy ending, I'll do my best to provide one without tilting the truth, or the odds, too much.

Dr. Miles Picard still hasn't taken a drink.

Alan Reese once again is wearing a white collar.

The cattle drive did go on to Kansas, and the Double R, now one of the biggest spreads in Texas, or anyplace—where Bucephalus grazes contentedly in well earned retirement—once again stands for Riker and Riker.

Morales One and Morales Two, relatively rich, sank spur and rode south to Durango, Durango.

Wolf Riker, who now neither reigns nor serves, is about to have an operation in St. Louis, and the doctors say the odds are fifty-fifty that he'll see again.

And speaking of odds:

Flaxen has just entered the room and, as I write this, is looking over my shoulder. I think our odds are much better than fifty-fifty.

We are living quiet, peaceful lives in the City by the Bay, and Flaxen soon will give birth to a little boy or girl whose hair will be as yellow as Alabama butter. Our family physician is Dr. Picard.

We expect to continue living quiet, peaceful lives for a long, long time—with many
Veltio Avrios
, better tomorrows—that is, barring floods, fires, earthquakes, and other natural disasters.

“Right, Mrs. Guthrie?”

“Right, Mr. Guthrie.”

 

 

And, Mr. Greeley, I'm still going to vote for Ulysses Simpson Grant.

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Copyright © 2014 Andrew J. Fenady

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3471-0

 

First electronic edition: April 2014

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3472-7
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3472-6