Ned studied the man carefully while listening to his account of the incident that led to his arrest. The deputy marshal had met men like Wolf before, who for some reason or another were more accustomed to the Indian’s world. The man who first came to mind was another white man raised by Indians, a man called Sunday. Judging by Wolf’s mannerisms and the way he talked, as well as his buckskin attire, Ned guessed where it had all come from. “How old were you when you were took by Injuns?” he asked at one point. Wolf replied that he had never been taken by Indians, but Indians killed his folks when he was eleven. “But you spent some time with Injuns. Ain’t that right?” Wolf told him about the years he had lived with the Crows. It was enough to give Ned a pretty good picture of Wolf’s life up to that point, and to explain his savage reaction to a barroom bully.
“They took my rifle and my horse,” Wolf said. “They’ve got no right to do that. What are they gonna do with me?”
“I don’t know,” Ned replied. “I’ll see if I can find out, and I’ll let you know.” He smiled then, recalling his conversation with Lorena the night before. “That one whore, the big one that looks old enough to be your mother, said that bay was hers. She said she was just lettin’ you use him while you were guidin’ them. Couple of the boys upstairs in the guard quarters were lookin’ at a Henry rifle when I came in—mighta been yours. I expect they’ll keep it in a rack up there till they decide to let you go.” The news did little to assure Wolf. He nodded and turned away.
As he closed up his bag, the doctor informed the sergeant, “I’m gonna want to take a look at that wound tomorrow afternoon. When I do, I want you to bring him upstairs out of this foul jail room. That place isn’t fit to keep hogs in.”
“Yessir,” the sergeant replied, not really concerned, because he wouldn’t be on duty after the guard mount in the morning. The captain could take it up with whoever took his place. The jail was in a pretty sad state, a stone building with overcrowded conditions and no furniture or beds, and nothing but a blanket for heat. There was no separation of prisoners. The murderers were mixed in with the poor bastards who got caught sleeping on guard duty. And now they had a “wild man” thrown into the stew. There was talk about building a new jail, but nobody complained but the doctor, the post commanding officer, and those who found themselves incarcerated.
Ned couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor caged animal as he watched Wolf go immediately to one of the small windows and remain standing there, looking out. He followed the sergeant back upstairs to the guards’ quarters. “How long did they throw him in for?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” the sergeant replied. “I think the provost marshal is thinking about puttin’ him on trial.”
“Why?” Ned asked. “It wasn’t much more’n a barroom fight, same as they have every week. They don’t put everybody that gets in a fight up for trial, do they?”
“No, but this fellow broke Sergeant Peterson’s arm and was fixing to kill him. I think Colonel Bradley is cracking down on some of the trouble out at that hog ranch, and he’s most likely gonna send a message to anybody else thinking about causing trouble down there.”
“Well, there ain’t nothin’ I can do for the poor bastard,” Ned concluded, although he kind of wished he hadn’t caused him to be in the guardhouse.
Later on that afternoon, Wolf had another visitor. This one did not come inside to see him, however. He heard his name called outside the tiny window at the back of the jail room. When he reached that window, he looked down to see Rose Hutto standing alone beneath the window. “I had to see if you were all right,” she said. “Are you? You looked like they had knocked you senseless.”
“I’m all right now,” he said. “Got a terrible headache, though. I’m hopin’ they’ll let me outta here pretty soon.”
“That’s something else I came to tell you. Lorena found out from a soldier that works in the provost marshal’s office that they’re gonna hold you for a military trial, and they might send you to prison.”
“I can’t do that,” Wolf stated honestly. “I’m ’bout to go crazy shut up in this box. I’ve got to get out of here and get up in the mountains, somewhere I can breathe.”
His obvious sense of panic caused her to fear for his life. “Don’t do something crazy and get yourself shot,” she pleaded. “Don’t do anything yet. Me and Lorena and Billie Jean are not gonna let them send you off to prison. Lorena’s already thinking up a way to help you. Promise me you won’t try anything until we have a chance to come up with a way to get you out.”
“I’ll wait a little while,” he promised, “but I’m gonna get outta here one way or another, even if it’s feetfirst on a slab. Dyin’ is better’n livin’ in a cage.”
“You just hold on. We’ll think of something.” She started to leave but then remembered. “Oh, and we’ve got your horse. Lorena told them it was her horse, so they didn’t take it.”
“I know,” he said. “That marshal told me. Tell Lorena I ’preciate it.” Now, if I can just figure out a way to get to it, he thought, I’ll sure ride the hell away from here. There were two things that were most precious to him, his horse and his rifle. And Ned Bull had said his Henry rifle was upstairs in a gun rack.
Captain Hartsuff returned the following day as he had said, but he was later than planned. The prisoners had been fed, and upstairs in the guard quarters the men on guard duty were going to, or returning from, the mess hall. Most of the men back from the mess hall were catching a few minutes of sleep before it was time for their tour. Some were playing cards or involved in a game of checkers. Two of the soldiers trying to sleep were unfortunate to have chosen cots closest to the sergeant’s desk. These two were ordered to fetch the prisoner upstairs for treatment of his wound, because the surgeon was adamant that he was not going to give medical care in “that pigpen of filth.”
“Ward and McPherson will bring your patient up,” the sergeant told Hartsuff. “I’m gonna run over to the mess hall before they close it up.” He turned to his two reluctant guards and said, “Keep on your toes. It’s the wild man he’s wantin’ to attend to, so you two stay with him till the captain’s finished.” He left then while Ward and McPherson went downstairs to fetch the “wild man.”
The two guards soon returned with the prisoner, who gave no indication of resistance, instead silently complying with their instructions to keep his hands clasped behind his head. “Well, mister,” Captain Hartsuff said, “let’s take a look at how that wound is healing.” Wolf glanced at his guards to see if there were any objections to his moving his hands, since they were directly over the wound. Realizing the cause of his patient’s hesitation, Hartsuff instructed impatiently, “Go ahead and take your arms down. I can’t look at your wound with your hands in the way.” Private McPherson nodded permission for Wolf to comply. “You two just sit down over at the table, and be careful with those rifles. You can see him over there and you’ve got plenty of time to shoot him if he runs for the door.” This last remark was delivered with an ample helping of impatience. McPherson and Ward did as the captain ordered and withdrew to a table across the crowded room from the officer of the day’s desk.
“Hey, McPherson,” one of the checker players chided, “you better watch yourself. Make sure he don’t go wild on you. He broke Sergeant Peterson’s arm, you know.”
Amid a smattering of chuckles from the other soldiers who heard the remark, McPherson answered, “He doesn’t look too wild right now. I reckon a night in the hoosegow mighta sobered him up.”
In truth, Wolf did appear totally subdued as the surgeon unwrapped the binding that held his bandage in place. However, he was taking note of everything around him. One of the first things he noted was the gun rack near the center of the room where the guards stacked their rifles when waiting to go on duty. At the end of the rack, his glance was captured by the brass receiver plate and the lever action of a Henry rifle—his Henry rifle, he felt sure. He could not count on how many more times he would find h
imself outside the locked cell room downstairs, so he felt desperate to evaluate his chances of escape. The main problem confronting him at that moment was the discomforting fact that he was in a room with perhaps twenty soldiers. On the other hand, this might work in his favor, since he doubted the lounging guards gave any serious thought that the prisoner might try to escape, with odds so heavily in their favor. His eyes switched back to the two soldiers at the table. Their weapons were the only rifles out of the gun rack—better odds, he thought, but still not in his favor.
“I suspected as much,” the doctor muttered to himself as he inspected Wolf’s scalp. “I should have put a couple of stitches in this wound yesterday. I thought it had a chance of closing up without them, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.” He dabbed at the blood around the wound with the binding he had just removed, and continued to stare at it for a few moments more before declaring to the two guards, “I need to stitch him up, so I’m going to have to have him taken over to my surgery.”
There was an immediate look of concern on the faces of both guards. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain,” McPherson said, “we can’t do that without Sergeant Wilson’s or Lieutenant Davidson’s permission. Can’t you just sew him up right here?”
“I could,” Hartsuff replied, “but I don’t want to. These aren’t the cleanest of conditions for closing a wound.”
“Hell, sir,” Private Ward interjected, “look at him. He’s been livin’ with Injuns most of his life, and they would most likely sew him up with the guts outta some animal. He ain’t used to clean conditions.”
Captain Albert Hartsuff was a compassionate man and he had little use for men who were not. “Just the same, Private, I think we’ll take him to my surgery.”
“Yessir,” McPherson responded. “Can you wait for a minute or two, so one of us can run over to the mess hall and let Sergeant Wilson know what you’re gonna do?”
“Make it quick,” Hartsuff said. “I’ve got other things to do tonight.”
Private Ward quickly placed his rifle in the gun rack and ran to the barracks mess hall to find Sergeant Wilson. When he returned, he was accompanied by Lieutenant Davidson, the officer of the day. Davidson was mounted on a bright chestnut Morgan gelding that he pulled up to the door of the guardhouse, then climbed down from the saddle and handed the reins to Private Ward to hold. “Hello, Albert,” the lieutenant said when he saw the surgeon step out of the door of the guardhouse.
“Jim,” Hartsuff returned.
“What is it you wanna do?” Davidson asked. When Hartsuff explained that he simply wanted to treat the prisoner in a more sanitary environment, Davidson expressed his concern. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea or not,” he said. “My orders were to be especially watchful for any sign of trouble from this prisoner because of his violent nature. Are you sure you wanna take him all the way across the post to the hospital?”
“Like I’ve been trying to tell your men, I can’t work on his wound here,” Hartsuff repeated, growing more irritated by the moment.
Davidson shrugged indifferently. “Damn, Albert, what’s so important about treating this fellow, anyway? To hell with his wound. It’ll probably heal up all right on its own, and I’d rather not chance something happening while I’m O.D. So let’s just put him back in lockup. He shouldn’t have been let out in the first place.”
“I believe I’m the one to decide what’s best for the injured man, Lieutenant,” Hartsuff stated emphatically, emphasizing Davidson’s rank.
“Well, Captain,” the lieutenant shot back, “I have a duty as officer of the day to see that my orders are carried out, and that includes not putting the men or the post in jeopardy.”
The two officers were oblivious of the fact that their heated exchange had caught the rapt attention of the guard detail. This included that of Private McPherson, the only armed guard watching the prisoner at that point, as well as that of Private Ward, who was holding the lieutenant’s reins. It was not often that the enlisted men had the opportunity to witness a seemingly frivolous spat between two officers, as evidenced by the grins of amusement on all their faces. While the officers stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other, one among the spectators was not smiling. Wolf, no longer the center of attention, focused on Private McPherson, who was leaning forward in an effort to miss none of the fun, his rifle propped casually against his leg. Wolf shifted his gaze to Private Ward, standing just outside the door, inching closer so as to hear every word of the exchange. There was never going to be a better chance, he decided as he took another look in McPherson’s direction. The private was totally absorbed in the altercation, and thoroughly enjoying it.
As quick as a cat, Wolf suddenly sprang out the door, jerked the reins from Ward’s hand, and leaped into the saddle. His sudden move startled the horse, causing it to jump sideways, almost stumbling down the bluff behind the guardhouse before breaking into a full gallop as Wolf flailed it with the reins. The reaction in the guardhouse was chaotic with troopers scrambling to respond as they tried to draw weapons from the rack and hurriedly fumbled to load them. Trying his best to react, Private McPherson ran outside and aimed his rifle at the fleeing prisoner, who was already fifty yards away and getting farther by the second. “Don’t hit my horse!” Davidson screamed, causing McPherson to raise his sights and send his shot sailing over Wolf’s head.
By the time McPherson could reload his single-shot Springfield, Wolf was rapidly riding out of range in the early evening light. The lieutenant’s horse was not only regal in appearance, but it could run as well, and Wolf held it to a full gallop as he raced along below the bluffs, giving the horse no rest until coming to a bridge crossing the Laramie. He drew back on the reins and guided the Morgan up the bluffs to cross over the road leading into the fort. Back down to the river’s edge, he continued at a lope, promising the horse that he would haul him back to a walk before much longer. He had escaped for the time being, but he had been forced to leave his rifle behind, and he could only imagine the rush to form a posse to pursue him. Got to get off of this sandy riverbank, he thought, knowing his trail would be easy to follow, so when he came to a short road leading up from the river, he swung the horse up from the bluffs again. At least I can mix my tracks with the tracks on the road, he figured.
With still no sign of pursuit yet organized behind him, he reined the horse back to a walk as he passed a row of buildings that looked like houses, although there was no sign of anyone about. Just as well, he thought. When he passed the last of the buildings, he veered off the road and set out at an angle to intercept the road that led to the hog ranch. After striking the road, he followed it to a point he remembered to be a mile or so from the saloon where he had been arrested. He dismounted then and turned the horse back toward the fort. With a little encouragement in the form of a couple of sharp swats across its rump, the chestnut Morgan started back down the road at a trot. He didn’t plan to add horse-stealing to whatever charges the army was already piling up on him, and he counted heavily on the reports that Lorena was keeping his horse for him. On foot now, he broke into a trot himself, a way of travel that he had ample experience with when he was a boy in the Wind River Mountains.
It was approaching darkness when he reached the Three-Mile Hog Ranch, a fact he was thankful for, and he hesitated a few moments when he didn’t see Lorena’s wagon. Then he spotted it parked beyond the last in the row of eight cabins. With the evening just beginning, he figured the women would all be working their trade in the saloon, so he didn’t waste time in an effort to be stealthy. The soldiers would surely come to this place to look for him, especially since he had left tracks that pointed in this direction. So he went directly to the wagon and climbed into it, hoping his saddle and the rest of his possessions were stored there.
He had figured correctly, for in the back of the wagon he found his saddle and saddlebags. His spirits were dampened only by the empty saddle scabbard where his Henry once rode. In his mind, it was a heavy los
s, for he could not survive without a rifle. He hopped back down from the wagon and was in the process of pulling his saddle out when he heard the low warning: “You can stop right there, mister.” He turned around to face the solid, square figure of Billie Jean, her Sharps carbine pointed at him. Before he could speak, she recognized him. “Wolf! How the hell did you get here?” Before he could answer, she got a better look at the back of his head. “Good Lord in heaven!” she exclaimed. “We need to do something about that cut on the back of your head.” She stepped closer again. “That’s a nasty-looking wound.”
“I ain’t got much time to fool with it,” he replied. “There’ll be soldiers come lookin’ for me. Where’s my horse?”
“In the corral back of the barn,” she said. “How’d you get out?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime when we can sit down by the fire and drink a cup of coffee. Right now I’ve got to get my possibles and get outta here.”
She stepped back and watched him pull his saddle out and heft it up on his shoulder. Noticing the empty saddle sling, she asked, “Where’s your rifle?”
“In a gun rack in that army jail,” he answered. “There wasn’t no way I could get it.”
“You need a rifle,” she said. “Here, take mine. You can’t go off with nothing for protection or to hunt with. There’s more cartridges for it in the cabin. I’ll get ’em while you get your horse.” She slipped the carbine into the saddle sling. “It’s loaded.”
He was grateful beyond his ability to express it, so he simply replied with a simple “’Preciate it. I’ll try to pay you back for it, but it might be a while.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” she said as she hurried off to get the cartridges, and he headed for the corral.
Certain that Lorena and Rose would be cross with her if they weren’t told that Wolf was there, Billie Jean ran inside the saloon to get her two friends. It was early enough in the evening that Lorena was not engaged in any negotiations, so she found her standing at the bar, talking to Smiley. “Come on,” Billie Jean called from just inside the door. “Hurry up!” she encouraged as she motioned.
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