The Range Wolf (9 page)

Since we had been a considerable distance from the herd, it was hard to tell the number of witnesses to our equestrian encounter, but there had to have been some, and those who did witness it were not reluctant to recount the event to those who did not.

French Frank failed to show up for the noon meal. I did not know if he was nursing his wounds, his pride, or collecting scattered kings and queens. And I did not care. I was too busy making up for lost time in doing my kitchen chores.

Cookie was even more dour than usual, and to my relief, more taciturn. He barely spoke a word, just slapped the three B's—beef, beans, and biscuits, on the plates and motioned for the drovers to move briskly through the line—and they did.

All except Wolf Riker and Pepper who moved at their own pace and stopped in front of me to serve them.

“I understand you had a pleasant ride, Guth.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Got along well with Tobacco, did you?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Good. Take another turn or two this afternoon. And, Guth . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“I said you'd change. And this is just the beginning. By the way, Tobacco is yours exclusively . . . for the rest of the drive. We'll talk later.”

While I was saddling up, Pepper approached within talking distance and talked.

“Be cautious, sonny. That French Frank is a skunk. Him and Cookie make good company.”

“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Pepper. Consider me Captain Caution. And why is he called French Frank? He doesn't seem in the least bit French.”

“That's the name he give to himself. Claims his grandfather worked the guillotine back during the French Revolution. Beheaded somebody called Rose-pierre. Most likely just another one of his lies.”

“Very colorful.”

“Yeah. But he's still a skunk, so be on the lookout, front and back, and around the corners.”

“I will, and thanks again.”

I did take a turn or two on Tobacco that afternoon without incident. And without sight of French Frank.

Supper went smooth enough, and French Frank did show up, without his quirt, but with bruises on his face and probably more under his shirt and pants.

No one said anything to him, but there was a noticeable difference in the way the drovers looked at him. Chandler, Smoke, Dogbreath, Reese, Latimer, Drago, Simpson, even Morales One and Morales Two. And I must admit there was a difference in the way those drovers looked at me.

I had finished my nightly chores and was about to make my nightly entry into my journal when I heard the voice of Alan Reese.

“Mr. Guthrie.”

“Good evening.”

“Mr. Guthrie, I was just passing by Dr. Picard's wagon. The door was open, and he asked me to tell you he'd like to see you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. I'll go right over.”

Dr. Picard was at the door waiting.

“She's awake,” he whispered, “fully conscious and beginning to ask questions. I thought it better if you'd be here and provide some of the answers. A friendly face, you know.”

“Yes, it might. At least I'm a familiar face. We'll see how friendly.”

I made my way to a chair next to the bunk where she lay.

In spite of the ordeal she had suffered, Flaxen Brewster looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

Her eyes were open and looking straight ahead until she heard the sound of my voice.

“Flaxen. Flaxen . . . it's Christopher Guthrie. Do . . . do you remember?”

First her eyes, then her face turned toward me.

“Yes. Of course I remember, Mr. Guthrie.”

“Flaxen, this is Dr. Picard.”

Picard took a step forward.

Flaxen nodded.

“The stagecoach,” I went on, “overturned. You were seriously injured. Very seriously. Dr. Picard operated days ago. He saved your life.”

She smiled but for only an instant. Then the smile faded.

“My father . . .”

“I'm sorry.”

She breathed heavily.

“The others?”

“There were no other survivors. Only you and I.”

“Miss Brewster,” Dr. Picard moved closer. “There's something you ought to know. I did perform the operation, but it was Christopher Guthrie who saved your life. Without his insistence Wolf Riker would not have allowed me to operate. It was almost too late as it was.”

“Who is . . .”

“Wolf Riker,” Picard finished.

She nodded.

“He's the leader of this . . . expedition,” I said.

“Where . . . where are we?”

“Some might say hell,” I answered. “Others purgatory. But it's a cattle drive . . .from Texas to Kansas . . . and Wolf Riker is the ‘driver.'”

“I'm not sure I . . .”

“You don't have to be sure of anything for now, Flaxen, except for one more thing.”

“What?”

“There's a ring on your finger. A diamond ring. An engagement ring.”

With some effort she raised her left hand high enough so that the ring became visible to her.

“But, why? How . . . ?”

“Flaxen, please. Save your strength. I'll explain as much as is necessary. Just listen. Will you do that?”

She acknowledged silently.

“Most of the men on this drive are . . . well, less than civil, even less than civilized. If they knew, that is if they . . .”

“Knew about our first meeting?”

“We thought it better that they believed you and I are . . . engaged and . . .”

“Miss Brewster,” Dr. Picard interrupted, “it was Mr. Guthrie's idea, and a good one . . .”

“Mr. Guthrie told you . . . about . . .”

“No. It was you. You did a little talking while you were delirious.”

“But the ring, how . . .”

“Don't ask a lot of questions. No one will find out,” I said, touching her hand. “For now just rest and gain your strength. You'll know everything soon enough. Now, will you do that? Please.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“I
am
sorry about your father, Flaxen. And this time, it seems, you did lose Louie.”

Flaxen Brewster closed her eyes.

At the door, just before I left, Dr. Picard took my hand for a moment.

“Thank you, Mr. Guthrie. I don't know what I would have done without you.”

“I can say the same for you, doctor, both Flaxen and I.”

As I walked back toward the kitchen wagon the door to Wolf Riker's wagon opened and he stood at the entrance.

“Guth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“No, sir.”

“Then come in. We'll have a nightcap.”

I could not have been much more surprised if he had invited me to high tea. Still, I could not refuse a drink or much else Wolf Riker suggested.

He poured two glasses of Napoleon brandy.

“You paid a visit to your fiancée, did you?”

He knew very well I had, but I nevertheless nodded.

“And she's recovering?”

I nodded again.

“Then we can toast to her recovery.”

“And confusion to the enemy.”

“That, too,” he smiled.

We drank.

“But you and I don't have to be enemies. You're not my enemy, are you, Guth?”

“No, sir. Just captive.”

“A pinwheel of fate. And a Boswell. Have you written about me?”

“Haven't had much time.”

“But you will, as time goes by, won't you?”

“I'll write about everything and everyone on this drive . . .if I have time.”

“Then we must see that you will . . . have time. So long as it doesn't interfere with your duties.”

“I'll do my best.”

“I'll see that you will. In a way this is a historic drive. Part of the destiny of Texas.”

“And Wolf Riker.”

“That, too.”

“Neither of us knows how it will end, but I don't even know how it began.”

“We'll go over that some other time. But I'll tell you part of the beginning.”

Wolf Riker took a swallow of his brandy and looked deep into the glass.

“It began between two wars. The war for Texas and the war for the Confederacy—and two brothers. Wolf Riker, the older—years of bone weary work on the docks and at sea to send Dirk, the younger, through school and college, and how the two of them rode west with five hundred dollars that Wolf had saved, to seek their future and fortune.

“And one night after they had crossed the Texas border and made camp, it appeared that they would have neither a fortune—nor a future . . .”

I leaned forward.

“Please go on.”

Wolf Riker's eyes seemed somewhat out of focus. I thought it might be the onset of another spell that he was doing his best to fight off.

“I said I'd tell you part of the beginning. The rest will have to wait until another time.”

“Yes, sir.”

I finished my brandy and rose.

“Guth.”

“Yes, sir?”

“French Frank. What you did today. You're gaining strength. Remember what I said . . . ‘The strong take it from the weak.'”

“Yes, sir. And at times, the smart take it from the strong.”

“Good night, Guth.”

“Good night, Mr. Riker.”

As I approached the kitchen wagon, Cookie and French Frank were engaged in another whispered conversation, and as I came nearer French Frank turned and walked away. I believe there was a patina of lard on his bruised face.

“You're a busy little bugger, ain't you?” Cookie sneered.

I did not respond.

“I said . . .”

“I heard what you said; but I didn't hear any orders from you so I went about my business.”

“Spent time with your fancy fiancée, didn't you?”

“That's none of your business.”

“And with Riker in his wagon. Gettin' kind o' chummy with him, ain't you?”

“I visit Mr. Riker only by invitation. Maybe sometime he'll even invite you.”

“That's enough of your lip, pansy.”

He picked up one of the longest galley knives.

“And don't you forget who's still the cock o' this walk.”

Later, by moonlight, I made several entries into my journal, including the first part of Wolf and Dirk Riker's beginnings in Texas.

I found myself eager to hear more.

The next day began calmly enough. The air warm and windless. The overall attitude of the drovers temperate enough.

Wolf Riker was determined to get, and keep, the cattle moving at a lively pace, and that's the way the drive began that day, right up to and through the noon meal.

But soon after, the air turned warmer and not as windless.

I had taken Tobacco out for a stretch when I saw some of the drovers, at first Chandler and Smoke, then others, slow, then stop their mounts, lift themselves out of their saddles by straightening their legs from the stirrups.

All looking in the same direction as did I.

There in the distance, just above the flat horizon, there appeared to be a fine, rusty cloud.

The drovers shook their heads, pulled their hats lower onto their brows and settled back into their saddles, some of them lifting kerchiefs from their throats onto their faces.

The cloud slowly sprawled wider and nearer, not gusting, barely spreading.

“Damn.”

I heard Smoke mutter as he rode by.

Later I heard some of the rest express themselves more volatilely.

But I was to learn that this was not what the westerners sometimes call a twister—other times call a whirlwind—tempest—sirocco—squall—dust devil—sometimes, son of a bitch.

Those sons of bitches are propelled by wind, usually blinding, gusting, buffeting, swirling wind. But not this son of a bitch.

This was a fine, almost motionless, clinging fog—a fog composed of noxious soot-like dust.

But still it took its toll.

On the cattle, the horses, and on the men.

The cattle were in no mood to move at all, much less at the pace that had been set earlier in the drive.

The horses in the remuda and those being ridden did their best to turn their heads and blink away the particles of dust, but to little avail.

And the men on horseback did their dry-throated best to keep the cattle moving through the impervious blanket of powder.

They cursed and close rode their horses along the cattle, waving their circled lariats at the recalcitrant beeves, while Riker and Chandler exhorted the drovers, who were exhorting the cattle.

This went on for hours. There seemed no end to the rusty pall.

The setting sun was barely visible, a dim circle, fading into the indistinguishable skyline.

Supper was served among more coughs and curses, but general conversation was sparse. No one was in the mood to open his mouth except to eat and drink and rest his dust-caked body.

Leach, in particular, wheezed and coughed more than the rest. Young and strong though he was, he had been riding tail all through the day and swallowing more than his share of dust from both the sky and the wake of the cattle. He barely touched his food, and swayed, almost staggered, as he made his way near the campfire where he'd spread his blanket.

I did manage to take food and drink to Dr. Picard's wagon.

To my pleasant surprise Flaxen was sitting up, leaning against the headboard of her bunk, even though the air inside the wagon was spangled with particles of dust.

She had total recall of our conversation of last night and even smiled.

“Mr. Guthrie,” she said, “I hope I didn't seem unappreciative last evening for what you've done. Dr. Picard filled me in with more of the details. I am most grateful, and . . .”

“And you needn't say any more, Miss Brewster.”

“Oh, but I must. Something most important.”

“Yes?”

“This ring,” she held out her hand. “I promise to return it . . . just as soon as possible. You needn't worry.”

“I'm not in the least worried. At least not about the ring. There are more important things . . .”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact that you certainly seem to be improving. That's what's most important. So keep improving.”

“I will, and let's hope, so will this dust storm.”

“The Greeks have a saying.”

“They have a lot of sayings. Which one?'

“
Veltio avrio.
”

“Which means?”

“A better tomorrow.”

I walked past Wolf Riker's wagon and, after the day's setback, didn't think he'd be disposed for company, not even for Pepper's—who was leaning against the wagon.

“Good night, Pepper.”

Rather than use up any words, Pepper just nodded.

I moved past the campfire, where most of the men were asleep, but a few were still coughing, most noticeably, Leach.

I went to sleep hoping for a better tomorrow.

But it didn't start out that way.