The Range Wolf (7 page)

But in a way it wasn't the end of the night, not for me. Exhausted as I was from the events and exertions of the day, as I lay on the blanket atop the still damp earth, the component my body craved and silently cried out for—sleep—eluded me, trumped by conflicting speculation and contemplation of the future—if there was a future.

My mind, a scrambled bedlam, would not let go of the faces and events of the foregoing weeks, days, and hours.

Christopher Guthrie,
bon vivant
, elitist even among the cognoscenti of New York society, wallower in the lavish comfort of a Park Avenue residence, diner at the most expensive restaurants on the continent, escort about town of assorted spoiled, but desirable debutants, attendee and critic of the city's finest theatrical productions—including my rave review of Edwin Booth's triumphant return to the stage as Hamlet at the Winter Garden Theatre, little more than a year after his brother, John Wilkes, had assassinated the President of the United States.

Booth's voice, his soliloquy as Hamlet still echoing in my mind.

And I had become little more than a peasant slave.

From an existence of ease, comfort, and leisure, to the fierce, pitiless society of quasi-civilized vulgarians—Cookie, Leach, Dogbreath, French Frank, and Latimer—to name the worst, most of them dregs of the Confederacy, now without country or conscience, commanded by the most forceful, contradictory character it had ever been my misfortune to come across.

Instead of being shanghaied on some hell-ship, it was my plight to be conscripted on a desperate, dirt voyage, with a cargo of thousands of recalcitrant cattle, facing God knew what odds; Indians, border raiders, and very likely, a mutinous crew, to say nothing of the shortage of supplies due to an angry sky.

Sacks of beans, flour, and coffee left behind in the mire of a vast expanse called Texas.

Texas—in my mind I tried to visualize a map of Texas, of where we might be now, and of where we were going—names and places I had heard the drovers mention—The Brazos, Illano Estacado, Panhandle, Staked Plains, Dry Tortuga; but they might as well have been talking Chinese, and we might as well have been in China.

Somewhere along the way there had to be at least an outpost of civilization. If not a city or village—a fort, or even a ranch.

Wolf Riker, himself, had acknowledged that I, unlike the others, had not signed on for the drive.

At any of those places he could not prevent me from abandoning the drive—and taking Flaxen with me if she survived.

And I would be more than happy to compensate Riker for his trouble. I had no money with me, thanks to that thief, Cookie. But I still had my bankbook to prove my financial worth—and would make it worth his while.

If there were such a place, an outpost, Wolf Riker would stop and purchase supplies.

And I would purchase my freedom—mine and Flaxen's. Somehow, the thought of all this set my mind somewhat at ease.

In the meanwhile, I would begin a new journal, of the characters and events chronicling at least one small chapter in the history of the West.

If I survived it might be published and read by some of those countless thousands of pilgrims from all corners of the European continent who now reside in the Eastern region of this continent. The daring, restless souls who dream of adventure and fortune in the Western states and territories—the seekers who hark to what has been called the Manifest Destiny of this great nation.

The first entry into that journal is made up of the hundred or so lines written above—and the journal is entitled

 

THE RANGE WOLF CATTLE DRIVE

The next morning at first light I was awakened by a cackle and a familiar voice struggling to read words that were familiar to me—familiar because they were words I had written the night before.

“. . . seekers . . . who . . . hark to the . . . Man . . . Manifest . . . Dest . . . inee . . . hmmp . . . and the . . . journal . . . is . . . is . . . en-tite-led THE RANGE WOLF . . . heeh . . . heh—CATTLE . . .”

“Goddamn you!” I leaped up and grabbed the pages from Cookie's dirty hands.

“Here! Here!” He cawed. “Ain't you the twitchy one. I seen you scribblin' away last night. Just wonderin' what you was up to . . . just . . .”

“Just mind your own damn business . . .”

“Everythin' that goes on around here
is
my business. Get that straight, shorthorn, 'cause Eustice Munger, that's me, Eustice Munger, is the eyes and ears of this outfit who reports what he sees and hears directly to Mr. Wolf Riker.”

“So you're the official informer, is that it?”

“That's one way of puttin' it.”

“Well, you can inform Mr. Wolf Riker, or anybody else, of whatever you see and hear, but whatever I write on my own time is my private affair . . .”

“You ain't got any ‘own time' or any ‘private affairs, ' not on this drive, not while you're workin' for me. Better get that straight, too, waddy. As for what you write from now on, I don't give a short bit. That'll be between you and Mr. Riker. Now get your stringy ass over to the oven and get to work, NOW!”

So much for my standing up for my rights and privileges on the drive.

I got my stringy ass over to the oven and went to work on what had to be done in preparation for the morning meal.

But I was not prepared for what ensued.

There had been some murmured remarks from some of the drovers in the breakfast line, but Simpson's remark was not murmured as he held out the tin cup.

“This doesn't taste much like coffee.”

Cookie's retort was just as audible.

“That's 'cause I didn't use much coffee in the makin' of it—used grain that we got more of— and the beans is gonna be damn sparse, too, come noon and suppertime—and the bread . . .”

Wolf Riker pushed his way to the head of the line.

“Cookie, give me a cup of that coffee.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Riker.” Cookie nodded with his seldom smile. “Comin' right up.”

“And fill it up,” Riker added.

“Sure thing,” Cookie repeated. “Right to the brim, Mr. Riker.”

Wolf Riker lifted the cup to his mouth and drank. Drank it all.

“Anything more you want to say about the coffee on this drive, Simp?”

“The name is Simpson, Mr. Riker. Karl Simpson.”

“The name is anything I say it is, Simp. And on second thought, I think I'll have another cup.”

Cookie lifted the coffeepot, ready to pour, but Wolf Riker grabbed Karl Simpson's tin cup and drained all the contents.

“Now get out with the herd, Simp. And that goes for the rest of you. I said we're going to make up for lost time and that means starting now. And I don't want to hear any more bellyaching about coffee or beans or anything else.”

Wolf Riker slammed the cup onto the serving table and paused momentarily in case of any retort that might come from what he had just said—none came. He moved away and walked toward Pepper, who stood near a wagon whittling on a mesquite branch with his Bowie knife.

The drovers, including Karl Simpson, dispersed to their respective tasks without further comment or hesitation. Some of them had not even finished their morning meal, but, as if given a battlefield command, they automatically reacted to an order from a superior officer.

In addition to what Wolf Riker had said just a few minutes ago, I remembered his words from the night before—‘most of us have lost a war—or so they say. This is a different kind of war, and I promise you one thing—we're not going to lose this one.'

I had avoided any real danger in the Civil War, any real possibility of becoming a casualty; but here, years later and thousands of miles away, I had found myself in a different kind of war. A war for which I did not volunteer.

The Range Wolf's war.

Wolf Riker's cattle drive.

But that morning I was not the only irresolute member of the Wolf Riker cattle drive. I had plenty of company.

I recalled some of Simpson's defiant words, his admonition to me earlier on—“You're a man . . . stand up to him . . . the more they take advantage of you, the more they will . . . don't let him break you . . . fight 'em any way you can . . . never give up . . .” But that morning Simpson didn't give much evidence of defiance. Neither he, nor any of the others, did any “standing up” to the Range Wolf—not yet.

But it was a long way to Kansas.

Wolf Riker kept his word about making up lost time.

That day, the herd, even though it wasn't yet what the drovers term “trail broke,” covered just over fifteen miles through dust-chocked terrain.

Riker did not mount Bucephalus, but he wore out three other good horses from the remuda. He must have ridden three or four times those fifteen miles—back and forth, twisting and turning, riding from one side of the herd to the other, from point to drag and back again.

Wherever he rode, nothing quite pleased him, or else something quite displeased him, and he didn't hesitate to let the drovers know what they were doing wrong, and how they could do it better. Lead steers were moving too slow. Flankers and swing men were moving too wide. Here the herd was driving too loose; there the beasts were bunched too tight.

Wherever he rode, Riker barked commands, and those commands were carried out amid inaudible, dust swallowed curses from the drovers. Tempers rose with the arc of the sun, but not within sight and sound of Wolf Riker. Past noon with the sun just past its upmost arc and just beginning its long slow descent, we had set up the serving table and began our routine of dishing out beef and scrimpy beans and coffee to the dirty, sweat-streaked drovers.

“Just coffee,” Riker ordered from Cookie.

“Me, too,” Pepper stood directly behind him.

“Two coffees,” Cookie nodded and served them up.

“Looks like Chandler's in one hell of a hurry,” French Frank pointed to the approaching rider.

“Maybe he's just hungry,” Dogbreath shrugged.

“Nobody's that hungry,” French Frank countered.

The trail boss flew off his mount and knocked the dirt and dust from his flapping chaps.

“Mr. Riker.”

“What is it, Chandler? Another stagecoach?”

“Nope. Tracks.”

“What kind of tracks?” Riker took a swallow of his coffee.

“Pony. Unshod ponies.”

“How many?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Enough to make up a war party?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Which way they headed?”

There was a pause.

“Yeah, I know,” Riker said. “Hard to tell.”

Chandler nodded.

Riker looked around.

“Smoke. You with the bloodhound eyes. You're part Indian, aren't you?”

“Some,” Smoke took a step forward. “Lived with 'em a couple years.”

“Read tracks?”

“Some.”

“That'll have to do. Get mounted. Chandler, you, too, get a fresh animal. The two of you go ahead and see if you can figure how many and which direction. Don't either of you get killed. I need you both.”

“Haven't 'et.”

“What?”

“Haven't 'et,” Chandler pointed to the serving table. “Can I eat first?”

“Sure you can. Take five minutes. Dogbreath, saddle him up a fresh mount.”

“I told you he was hungry,” Dogbreath said to French Frank, and moved away.

In spite of the interruption and the news that Chandler brought, we continued to make good time, and Wolf Riker continued to think it wasn't good enough.

But the drovers moved on, not knowing what they were moving on toward, but hoping it wasn't the mutilated bodies of Chandler and Smoke.

I did manage to bring a plate of food over to Dr. Picard.

“This outfit's in an all fired hurry today, isn't it?” he remarked.

“Riker's orders.”

“The wolf man,” Picard nodded.

“How is she? Better? Or worse?”

“Better . . . in spite of the wolf man.”

“Good,” I smiled and left.

Just before the sun slid beneath the western saw tooth peaks, Chandler and Smoke rode in, weary but not mutilated, and reported to Riker, while the rest of us listened.

“See anything?” Riker had asked Smoke.

“Tracks. Not enough for a war party. Led up to rocky hillside and disappeared. Coulda been a scouting party.”

“You think they spotted us?”

“Hard to miss. All that dust. We could spot it miles away. They got eyes, too. Better eyes.”

“Well, there's nothing we can do, but be ready for anything. Say, Smoke, anyway of telling which tribe?”

Smoke shook his head negatively.

“Around here . . . maybe Comanch' . . . maybe Kiowa.”

“Which tribe did you live with?”

“Kiowa.”

“Well, if we run into any, let's hope they're some of your relatives.”

“That won't cut much mustard,” Smoke's expression never changed. “As you white eyes say.”

That night, after serving supper and cleaning up the residuary, I assumed my day's work was done and began to make my daily entry into my journal.

I was mistaken in my first assumption and interrupted in my literary endeavor.

“You! Guth!” came Cookie's voice. “Get off your stringy ass and get back to work.”

“Doing what?”

“What I say.”

“And what
do
you say, Mr. Munger?”

“Mr. Munger says”—Cookie actually seemed pleased at my appellation—“get over to Wolf Riker's wagon with this pot of tea and these clean sheets. Change the sheets and bring back . . .”

“The soiled ones?”

“Soiled? That's right, the dirty ones.”

“Very good, Cookie.” I thought one “Mr. Munger” was enough for the day.

There was a blanket of uneasy silence in the encampment. No campfire singing or tall tales, or levity of any kind among the tired drovers.

Balancing the sheets and tea tray, I made my way to Wolf Riker's wagon and knocked on the door.

“He ain't in.”

I turned toward the sound of Pepper's assertion.

“Where is he?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Out there,” Pepper pointed toward the vast darkness.

“I see.”

Actually I didn't see anything but vast darkness.

“I was ordered to bring tea and clean sheets to Mr. Riker.” I held out both items.

“So I observed,” Pepper nodded toward the tea and sheets.

“There's something that I observe, or rather, don't observe.”

“What's that?”

“This is the first time around the camp that I don't see you within sight of him.”

“There's a lot of firsts in life, I guess that's one of them.”

“And I guess that'll have to serve as explanation.”

“I guess . . . except for this. There are times when Riker likes to take a walk at night out in the open . . . by himself . . . just to think about things . . . so that's what he's doin' out there . . . and that's why I'm over here.”

“That's a very good explanation.”

“Glad you like it . . . not that it much matters.”

“May I ask you one more question?”

“Ask.”

“Do you always respect his wishes?”

Pepper nodded.

“And vice versa.”

“I must say that that is a rarity between two people.”

“It happens to be the way it happens to be . . . between me and Riker.”

“Very commendable, and”—I nodded toward the tea tray and clean sheets—“what do you suggest I do about these?”

Pepper took a step to the door of the wagon, twisted the knob, pushed open the door, pointed toward the interior, turned, and limped away.

I entered for the first time . . . and, as I turned up the lamp, marveled at what I saw. It seemed more like a paneled library in a minor mansion. An oak desk, leather chairs, carpet, an oversized bunk, on the wall what I presumed to be Wolf Riker's un-surrendered sword, and . . . racks of books.

Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, DeQuincy, scientific works . . . Tyndall, Proctor, Darwin, astronomy, physics. A copy of
The Dean's English
. The Cambridge edition of Browning. And on the desk an open book with a passage from Milton's
Paradise Lost
underlined in pencil:

And as I read to myself I heard that unmistakable voice, turned to find Wolf Riker standing near the doorway.

“And in my choice to reign is worth ambition though in hell. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven,” Riker closed the door and moved closer with that powerful, yet graceful stride.

“One of the better lines,” he said, “from one of the better poets.”

“Milton was a great poet,” I affirmed.

“Surprised at what you see here, Guth?”

“Yes, I am, Riker. Astounded.”

“
Mister
Riker.”

“Astounded,
Mister
Riker,” I set the tea tray on the desk.

“Why?” he moved still closer. “Because I read . . . and have a command of books as well as . . . people?”

“It's just difficult to reconcile your conduct with . . .”

“Milton? Not at all. It's all the same. All a part of strength. The strong survive.”

“So do the weak.”

“Only at the whim of the strong.”

“But not in a civilized society. That's what differentiates man from beast.”

Wolf Riker took another step with what seemed a look of appraisal, and amusement.

“I'm informed you're keeping a diary.”

“The eyes and ears of the drive.”

“Who? You?”

“No, Cookie. That's what he terms himself, the eyes and ears of the drive, and I imagine it was he who informed you. Yes, a diary. Journal.”

“What do you intend doing with it?”

“Writing a book.”

“Have you written before? Books, I mean.”

“Yes, I have. Articles. Reviews. Plays. And books.”

“Published? You've earned money from them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So then you've stood on your own legs as well as dead man's.”

“Mostly I write sitting down.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “When you're on your own time, but now you're on my time . . .”

“Twenty four hours, seven days a week?”

“As long as you're on this drive, but tell me, what are your books about?”

“Romance. Fiction.”

“Ah, but this isn't fiction. This is life, Guth, reality and not romantic.”

“There's a certain romance.”

“With Miss Brewster?”

I paused for just a moment.

“Yes . . . and with the hopes and dreams of the men on the drive.”

“A ragbag collection of riffraff. A company of idiots festering in ignorance. It doesn't matter whether they live or die . . .”

“. . . It matters . . .”

“. . . To whom . . . ?”

“Dr. Picard.”

“A drunk.”

“Not anymore.”

“We'll see.”

This time it was Wolf Riker who paused.

“Will you write about me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Hero or villain?”

“I'll have to decide . . . when I get to know you better.”

“And so you will, Guth, so you will. And I'll get to know you better.”

There was a momentary silence.

At first I thought it was just my imagination, but soon determined that the appraisal in Wolf Riker's eyes when he looked at me had indeed changed. Not changed completely, but somewhat. And somewhat in my favor.

I was no longer simply a fop, a coxcomb, who lived from, and enjoyed, the cream of a dead man's endeavors. A worthless dandy, an object of derision.

After what he had just heard, Wolf Riker couldn't help but be somewhat impressed.

In little more than a moment I broke the silence.

“Would you like me to pour your tea, Mr. Riker?”

“Never mind the tea, Guth. I have here something more . . . stimulating.”

He moved to a cabinet, opened it, and reached for a bottle and a pair of glasses.

“Brandy. Napoleon brandy. We'll have a swallow or two. Sorry I can't provide snifters, too delicate for the drive. These glasses will have to suffice.”

“They'll suffice just fine, Mr. Riker.”

He proceeded to pour, handed me a glass, and raised his own.

“Confusion to the enemy.”

“Yes,” I smiled, “even though Napoleon did not succeed in confusing the enemy . . . at Waterloo.”

“A pity. But we were talking not about history, but about you and me. Why did you come West? To marry Miss Flaxen Brewster?”

“That's part of it.”

“What's the other part?”

“To write that book.”

“Ah, yes. But you said you wrote fiction.”

“Not always. Besides, someone once said all writing is autobiographical.”

“So your book will include you?”

“Yes.”

“And me.”

“Yes. But as I said, when I get to know you better . . .”

As we spoke I noticed that, from time to time, Wolf Riker raised his hand to the scar on his temple as if to sooth the jagged mark.

“. . . and I've already learned a great deal about you, Mr. Riker, from this visit to your . . . wagon.”

“And I about you. But we'll see how you survive on this drive. I'll be interested in the change.”

“In me?”

Wolf Riker took another sip of Napoleon brandy and nodded.

“Ah yes. There will be a change, there has to be. Even as there was a change between my brother and me, a man who might go to any length to see this drive fail. To kill me if it comes to that, just as I'll kill him if that time comes. But you know, Guth, I'm glad you're with us. There's nobody to talk to. Except Doc, when he's sober. And that's seldom.”

“What about your friend, Pepper?”

“Yes, Pepper. But that's a different kind of talk. Not like the conversation we've had this evening.”

I felt this was the opportunity to broach a subject I had been contemplating.

“There is something I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Riker.”

“Literature?”

“No, Mr. Riker. Theft. I've been robbed. All the money I had in my pocket. I've reason to believe it was our culinarian.”

“Who?”

“My immediate superior. Cookie.”

“Pickings,” Wolf Riker shrugged and smiled. “Cookie's pickings. That's what I meant when I said you'll learn to take care of yourself and your money. I suppose up to now your lawyer's done it for you. Well, there is no lawyer out here.”

“How can I get it back?”

“That's your lookout. Beat it out of him if you're able enough. If not, kill him.”

“Do you seriously mean that? For three hundred dollars?”

“Three hundred . . . that much? But men have killed for less . . . even gentlemen.”

I felt the conversation had become futile and moved toward the bunk with the clean sheets.

But I noticed another change. A more serious change in Wolf Riker. He seemed to stagger slightly in sudden pain. His thick fingers now rubbed at the scar on his forehead as if trying to squeeze out the pain. I did my best to ignore what was occurring.

“I'll make the bed, Mr. Riker.”

“Never mind,” he commanded. “Just leave the sheets. Think I'll lie down.”

I placed the sheets at the foot of the bunk and started to leave.

“Guth.”

“Yes, Mr. Riker.”

“You'll learn.”

“Yes, Mr. Riker.”

“Or you'll die.”

Riker extended both arms forward, faltered, and pitched toward the bunk.

So ended the first meeting between just the two of us.

I did learn . . . a great deal about Wolf Riker.

Maybe more than I wanted to know.