The Range Wolf (18 page)

The morning broke clean, damp, but not wet.

The rain had ceased to fall.

Breakfast on the other side after a sleepless night.

Cookie, Morales One, Morales Two, Flaxen, and I all pitched in.

Hot beef, hot biscuits, and pale coffee.

The drovers, barely awake but hungry, devoured breakfast and what should have been last night's supper, while the herd grazed not far away.

Wolf Riker made another announcement. A brief one.

“Finish eating and get a couple hours sleep—then we're moving on.”

No thanks for a job well done, no word of commendation. No mention of Drago. Wolf Riker turned to walk away.

“Mr. Riker.”

“What is it, Reese?”

“After we eat and sleep . . . before we leave . . . do you mind if we have a service for Drago?”

“You mean a prayer service?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There's no body to bury.”

“We can still say a prayer here, near the river where he drowned.”

Wolf Riker shrugged.

“Make it a short one.”

Then he walked away.

 

 

After moving north across the Red River, we were no longer in Texas—or any other state in the United States of America.

This was known simply as Indian Territory. A vast unsettled expanse that had to be crossed before re-entering the United States in Kansas . . . during the war called “bleeding Kansas.”

From the rumors rampant, this was the most dangerous part of the drive, and the drovers had made it known that they'd already had their bellies full of danger.

Here, the drovers said, “there was no law and no God.”

But on this drive there was Wolf Riker. And on this drive he was both.

After Riker made his latest announcement there was the look of disgust, of defiance, in the eyes of all trail men who had listened. But they were all too tired to convert that look into anything more.

At least for the time being.

I did get a chance to spend a few moments with my “fiancée.”

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” I smiled.

“First-class transportation.” She returned the smile. “And you?”

“Steerage,” I retorted.

“I saw some of what you did, Christopher. You were magnificent.”

“Scared stiff.”

“That's what made it so magnificent.”

“Flaxen, if we get out of this . . .”

“Not if . . . when.”

“You've become an optimist . . . all right,
when
. . . there's something I want to talk to you about.
‘Veltio Avrio.'”

“A better tomorrow?”

“That's it.” I nodded. “Good night. See you in a couple of hours.”

 

 

I had been to funerals before.

But none like this.

There was no casket. No remains. No family. No clergyman. No chapel.

A hillock. By the side of a river.

All the members of the drive. All but Wolf Riker.

Alan Reese stood a short distance from the rest of us near the banks of the Red River.

In his hands, a Bible.

Unopened.

He spoke the words.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.”

All the heads were bowed.

“He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake.”

Reese looked toward the river and continued.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies.”

Wolf Riker appeared and stood nearby. Some of the drovers were aware of his presence, others were not.

“Thou annointest my head with oils: my cup runneth over.”

I took hold of Flaxen's hand.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Reese turned toward the mourners.

“None of us knew much about him except that he was called Drago and was a cowboy doing his job—”

“Murdered by a madman,” Simpson's voice cut through the service.

“—a cowboy and one of God's flock doing his best and who is now at peace, looking down—”

“Cursing his killer,” Simpson again.

“—at those of us who worked with him and who must someday join him—”

“Put an ‘amen' to it,” Wolf Riker said.

“—until that certain day of resurrection. Amen.”

Wolf Riker walked closer and stood near Karl Simpson.

“I heard what you said, Simp.”

“And so did God,” Simpson said.

“But I'm right here in front of you.”

“And so is God.”

“We'll see about that, Simp. You had a few things to say just a minute ago. Do you have anything to say now, or are you afraid to?”

“I fear no man, Mr. Riker.”

“We'll see about that, too, Simp.”

“Mr. Riker, please . . .” Alan Reese took a step closer.

“Shut up, Reese. Well, go ahead, Simp. Maybe this'll help.”

Riker's hand moved like a snake back and forth across Simpson's face slapping him again and again.

Blood flowed from Simpson's mouth. He swung at Riker, but Riker was too quick and smashed Simpson with powerful blows, an avalanche of fury, to the face and body until the man buckled and started to fall. But Riker held him with one hand and with the other, pummeled him without mercy. Simpson tried to strike back . . . in vain.

A final, seemingly fatal, blow, then Riker let him fall.

Flaxen turned and ran away.

Riker stood over the crumpled form.

“I can't abide betrayal.”

In that moment after Wolf Riker uttered those words and stood there without missing a beat or breath, I thought that it might be the end of the drive and of Wolf Riker.

Individually, the drovers were no match against Riker. No one of them could pull a gun faster, or fire with more accuracy. No one could match his speed and strength. When it came to strength, Smoke was the only one who had a chance. But after what Riker had done to Simpson, even that black giant could not be considered a formidable opponent.

No. There was nobody among them—among us—who had the potential.

But all of us together. That would be a different matter. A different contest.

If a score of men drew their guns simultaneously, springing hammer and trigger, with barrels exploding at the same human target—some would die—but so would Wolf Riker.

Or, if all leaped upon him with fists striking the face and body of one man, even a superior man that was Wolf Riker, he could not withstand the onslaught. Not even if Pepper rushed to his side.

Wolf Riker would be subdued.

His reign would be done.

And so would the drive.

But that moment came and went.

And nobody moved.

Not Leach. Not Smoke, or French Frank, Dogbreath, Latimer, or any of the others.

Nobody.

Except Wolf Riker.

He reached into his pocket, retrieved a cigar, put it into his mouth, lit the cigar, and moved away.

Then did Dr. Picard and Alan Reese go to the side of Karl Simpson.

And then the drive continued into the Indian Territory.

 

 

That night supper was served, but it was subdued, almost silent. The drovers were still stunned by the events of the crossing and what followed between Simpson and Riker.

Cookie kept a keen eye on his carving knives and on anybody who seemed to come too close to them.

There were whispers and furtive glances between the drovers and toward Riker's wagon. Would he come out among them that night?

He wouldn't.

But Pepper did.

He had a late supper while standing, holding a plate and looking at no one in particular.

But from time to time they looked at him, knowing that in order to get to Riker they would have to go through him—or do it when Pepper wasn't around—which was seldom—or never.

I did have the feeling that if there was going to be an attempt against Riker, it would not be during the bright daylight, but under the cover of darkness—at night.

But not that night.

The men were still too shaken, too impotent.

They would wait and conceive some sort of plan when they could take Wolf Riker unaware—and also see whether Karl Simpson would survive.

At least that's what I thought.

I went to the wagon where Simpson lay, tended by Dr. Picard and Flaxen.

Simpson's face was swollen; he was still alive, breathing irregularly and even muttering.

“Doctor, how is he?”

Picard pointed.

“Ask him.”

I approached and leaned close, although it was appalling to look at him.

“Mr. Simpson . . . it's Guthrie, Christopher Guthrie . . . can you hear me?”

He nodded, barely.

“You're going to make it . . . you're going to be all right.”

His voice was just above a guttural whisper.

“I'm going to kill him . . . I'm going to kill Riker.”

I had seen and heard enough.

Outside the wagon, Alan Reese was waiting. “Mr. Guthrie. I saw you go in. Is he alive?”

“He's alive.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes, he's alive, Mr. Reese, and is swearing.”

“Swearing?”

“Swearing to kill Riker, and speaking of God, Mr. Reese. I've seen many actors on the stage pretending to be someone else, a banker, doctor, lawyer, even a clergyman. But this morning I had the feeling . . . watching and listening to you, that I was not seeing someone pretending.”

“Mr. Guthrie . . .”

“It was you who kept Mr. Yirbee's Bible . . . who suggested the service, who held that Bible in his hand, and who quoted words from that Bible without opening it . . . words that came from the heart and soul, words you had spoken before. Many times before. There were other things, signs that set you apart from the rest. You are not like the other men on this drive. Mr. Reese, are you a clergyman?”

Silence.

“Sir,” I said, “you are not obliged to answer.”

“I will answer. But only to you. Yes, I am a clergy-man.”

“I thought so.” I smiled.

“I'm an unfrocked priest.”

There are all kinds of islands.

When someone says the word
island
, any one of a dozen visions might come to mind . . . a tropical island, a coral island, a volcanic island, a desert island, a polar island . . . an island composed of sand, or ice, or lava . . . any size; small enough to see all the way across, or a continent within itself—within sight of other land or isolated, thousands of miles from anything but water.

But we were on a different kind of island.

“Indian Territory,” it was called.

And, unlike other islands, it consisted of land surrounded, not by water, but by other land. Land, that included some states—and some territories—Texas, Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma.

The Indian Territory was set aside by the Federal Government primarily for the so-called Five Civilized Tribes: Cherokee, Seminole, Creek, Choctaw, and Chickasaw. But during the Civil War the Five Civilized Tribes gambled on the side of the Confederacy and since then the vast region had become a cauldron of chaos.

Tribes, justifiably not called civilized—Cheyenne, Arapaho, Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache—charged in and considered everything they could kill, rob, rape, and exploit to be fair game.

Much of the land was rich and fertile, suitable for farming. But much of the trouble was that the Indians were not farmers. Not like white people, not like settlers who built houses and barns, raised cattle and crops; individuals who staked a claim to a section of the land, stayed and raised a family in one place.

The Indians were hunters—individuals who owned no land—who owned all the land—hunters who moved with their prey and their possessions, in tribes large and small, and felt no compunction in taking from other tribes, by strength or stealth, whatever they needed or wanted—horses, women, weapons, whatever suited their needs or desires—to ride, to copulate, or to hunt buffalo. They lived by percepts the whites did not grasp—nor did the Indians grasp the ways of the whites.

But one thing the Indians did grasp—that this territory belonged to them, by divine right, and by right of treaty with the white government—and whoever crossed into their territory could rightfully be considered invaders.

But beside the Indians—Comanche, Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Apache—there was another breed.

Comancheros. Dirty men in a dirty trade.

They were called Comancheros because they did business with the Comanches and other tribes—providing guns, ammunition, whiskey, assorted provisions, and prisoners, often women—stolen and kidnapped—often from wagon trains moving west—or cattle drives moving north.

Comancheros. Scalawags, highbinders, backshooters, outlaws from both sides of the Civil War and below the border.

Into and across this terrain lay the destination of the Range Wolf Cattle Drive.

And it was on that night, after we had crossed the Red River, prayed for the immortal soul of one called Drago, after Riker had beaten Simpson nearly to death, after Simpson had sworn to kill Riker, and after Alan Reese had confided to me that he had formerly worn the round white collar, Pepper moved close to me and spoke just above a whisper.

“Mr. Guthrie, the boss wants to talk to you.”