The Last Days of Wolf Garnett

by Clifton Adams

  "Gault." It was Wompler again.

  "Be quiet."

  "Over to the right of the redbud. I think it's Finley."

  Gault turned his gaze to the right of the redbud but could see no sign of the deputy. There were a few moments of silence. Olsen was still scanning the creekbottom.

  Then Wompler exploded again with suppressed anger. "What're you waitin' on? Kill him! With Olsen out of the way, Finley'll lose interest in the sport soon enough!"

  "Shut up!" Gault said through clinched teeth.

  Olsen's head came up, his eyes slitted. He made a slight movement with his right hand and then, completely unexpectedly, he ducked into the brush again and disappeared. Gault could hear Wompler cursing disgustedly, and this time he couldn't blame him. He had had Olsen dead in his sights. A slight pressure on the trigger would have removed the threat. And killed a man.

  That was the trouble, Gault thought grimly. He was a cowman, not a killer.

  Wompler was hissing again between his teeth. "Gault! Do you see him?"

  Gault was instantly alert. He scanned the area on both sides of the redbud and saw the movement—a very slight one—where Wompler had seen the deputy. "Yes," he said. "All right. Just see if you can be quiet a while."

  He could feel himself sweating. The ground was damp and cold, the air was fresh with springtime, with still an aftertaste of winter in it—but he was sweating. Olsen and the deputy were moving in closer with their crossfire pattern.

  Over on Gault's right a clump of green mullein trembled. Was it a vagrant breeze mysteriously channeled across that particular part of the bottom, or was it a rifleman? Gault pushed his hat back and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

  "Gault," Wompler hissed. "Did you see that?"

  "Be quiet."

  For a time they lay like logs, and the creekbottom was silent. No breeze stirred the leaves on the trees or the weeds on the ground. It was an electric silence that set Gault's scalp to prickling. Then, in the midst of that silence, there was an eruption of sound. In Gault's startled ears it sounded as if a boulder had suddenly fallen out of the sky and was hurtling through the underbrush.

  It had been a pebble, probably no larger than a man's thumb. Olsen, or possibly Finley, had thumped it into the brush to distract them. The ruse was as ancient as history's hunt—and it still worked.

  It was Wompler, not Gault, who reacted first to the noise. He lurched up in the underbrush, swinging his .45 in a wild arc, firing shot after shot at the harmless undergrowth.

  He died almost immediately. Olsen and his deputy fired at almost the same instant. For just a moment Wompler looked over at Gault, appalled to find himself at the center of that deadly pattern of fire. Then thunder rolled down through the bottom, and the former deputy fell back into a stand of weeds.

  And that, Gault thought with an eerie bleakness is the end of Harry Wompler. And his frustrated ambitions. And dreams of riches.

  This strange mood of disinterest had taken hold of him when he saw the bullets tearing into Wompler, and he was hardly conscious of firing the Winchester until he felt the stock leaping against his shoulder. As in a vaguely remembered dream, he saw the dead face of Deputy Dub Finley passing in front of his sights. Going down slowly, like a ship sinking. Or a tree falling. And that, Gault thought again—still in the grip of that eerie detachment—is the end of Deputy Finley. Pony hide vest, fancy pistols and all.

  The numbness lasted only a moment. Wompler was dead and Finley was probably dead, but Olsen was still very much alive. Gault dived for the ground, and knives drove into his wounded side. He tried not to think of the pain. He brought up the picture of a stagecoach going off a mountain road—and the pain was tolerable. He could almost welcome it.

  Olsen fired two well-spaced, thoughtful shots into the area where Gault had been, but by that time Gault had scrambled a dozen yards away through the undergrowth. There he crumpled to the damp ground, gasping for breath. He heard the bullets ripping through the weeds. One of the lead slugs struck a rock and went screaming off into the blue-gray afternoon.

  For the moment he was helpless. The breath had been knocked out of him; he couldn't even raise his rifle to his shoulder. He did have his covering of tender green leaves, and Olsen still could not be sure whether he was alive or dead. After the two shots, Olsen had again ducked back into the lacy greenery out of sight. The echoing thunder of riflefire slowly died in the bottom. Again an expectant silence settled on the shady undergrowth.

  Then Olsen spoke. One quiet, reasonable man speaking to another. "Gault, this is a lot of foolishness. And damn dangerous foolishness, at that. We can't do one another any good like this; what say we try to strike a bargain?"

  Gault started to speak, then realized that that was just what Olsen wanted. It was no bargain that the sheriff wanted; he was hoping that Gault would give his position away. Gault inched his rifle to his shoulder.

  "Gault," Olsen said threateningly, "you ain't got nothin' to gain by gettin' me sore. Just hold your rifle where I'll know you won't try to shoot me, and we can talk this thing out."

  Gault smiled bitterly and gazed at the wall of weeds over the Winchester's sights. Where was the sheriff's voice coming from? On the upper bank somewhere, beyond the redbud. It was hard to tell, with both of them wrapped in blankets of greenery.

  The long silence stretched into minutes. To Gault they seemed like hours. Then the sheriff spoke with a sigh, and for the last time. "Don't be a fool, Gault. What has happened has happened; there ain't no way you can change a thing."

  Gault said nothing. He hardly dared to breathe. Then, after another long silence, he heard a quiet rustling in the weeds. Olsen was backing out of the creekbottom. He still couldn't be sure whether Gault was alive or dead; but he was pulling out just the same.

  From somewhere in that pale green jungle there was the nervous stamping of a horse. After a moment the sound of hoofs faded away to the north. Soon there was no sound at all.

  For whatever reason, Grady Olsen had broken off the fight. Long after the sound of Olsen's horse had faded away, Gault lay in the tall weeds, painfully aware of his injured side. He knew in his mind that Wompler was dead, but he told himself that he ought to get up and make sure. Still, he lay there. The bandages had slipped and his side was bleeding again; he could feel the blood moving warm and wet over the point of his hip. Still, he couldn't bring himself to move just yet. There was too much mystery attached to the actions of Grady Olsen. Too many questions yet to be answered.

  Automatically, his hands began unbuttoning his windbreaker and shirt and readjusting the bandage, but his mind was on the sheriff. Why had Olsen left the safety of Standard County to venture into Indian country and commit murder? Why had he broken off the fight, knowing that he might be leaving a rifle-armed enemy to dog his backtrail?

  Wearily, Gault pushed himself to his knees. "Wompler?"

  The former deputy lay back in green weeds spattered with crimson. His eyes were blind, his ears deaf. Gault turned his gaze toward the upper bank and called uselessly, "Finley?"

  The deputy lay face-down in a stand of dark mullein. First Colly, and now you, Gault thought bleakly. Two men he had killed in almost as many days. It was not a comfortable knowledge to live with. For several moments he stood there, dumbly wondering if there was anything else he could do. There wasn't.

  He finished buttoning up his shirt and windbreaker. Then he picked up his hat and brushed it off and started climbing the steep grade away from the water.

  When he reached the upper bank he sat on a rotting log and tried to get his bearings. Fort Sill was about a half a day's ride northwest. To the east was the Chickasaw Nation, where a U.S. deputy marshal was headquartered— but too far away to be of any help to Gault. Far to the north was the Cherokee Outlet where more cattlemen were leasing grass—again, too far away.

  Night was coming down on the prairie, and the horses were nowhere to be found. Gault made his way to the outer fringe of timber and stumbled on
to the north for as long as there was light to see by.

  At last he sank beneath the darkly gleaming spread of a liveoak tree. In exhaustion he sat for a long while, his mind a blank. Get some rest, he advised himself, while you can. Tomorrow will look better.

  After a long while sleep overtook him. Immediately, Martha was with him. With terror in her eyes. Silently begging him to save her. As the stagecoach went off the mountain road.

  Gault awoke, as always, in a bitter sweat. For a moment he was startled to find himself here on the edge of the prairie. The chill of the night was in his bones. Only with great effort did he pull himself to his feet and stamp some feeling into his legs.

  From the direction of the creek he heard a stirring and rustling, the tentative gobbling sounds of wild turkeys about to take flight from their roosting places. With a sudden urgency, Gault dried and inspected his Winchester. Then, moving as quietly as possible, he made his way toward the stream.

  The first flight of the great birds was already leaving the bottomland with a frantic beating of wings. Gault went down on one knee and took careful aim. The bark of the rifle sounded excessively loud in Gault's ears—but a handsome young gobbler fell like a rock from an oak branch.

  Within a matter of minutes he had the bird spitted and cooking over a small fire. By the time the sun appeared over the green crown of timber, Gault was finishing his breakfast. With a full belly, the new day did not look quite so cold and dismal. The dead men that he had left on the creekbank were distant memories. Even the nightmare—that never-ending nightmare—was less vivid. Now, he thought, if I could only find the buckskin…

  But that was asking too much. He made himself accept the fact that he would never see the animal again.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Gault had been walking most of the day when he first caught the smell of woodsmoke on the still air. He followed the scent into the heavy undergrowth near the creek. He was within sight of the still blue water, carefully parting a way through a tangle of wild grapevines, when a voice said, "Stand right still, Mr. Gault. Or I'll kill you."

  The voice sounded tireder and flatter than he remembered it. Gault took its advice and stood very still, his Winchester held loosely in his right hand.

  "Let the rifle go," Esther Garnett said.

  With great reluctance, Gault let the rifle fall into a stand of weeds. It was like parting with an old friend—the one friend that could be counted on when friendship was needed. "Is the sheriff with you, Miss Garnett?"

  "Don't you mind about the sheriff. Move back a piece from the Winchester." He started to do as he had been ordered, but she spoke again, sharply. "First, drop your pistol belt."

  Gault still had not seen her. She had come up behind him in the underbrush, very quietly. He unbuckled the cartridge belt and let drop the pistol that he had taken from Harry Wompler. There was a rustle of brush and Esther Garnett hurried in behind him and gathered up the weapons.

  "Now you can turn around."

  Gault turned and looked into the muzzle of her cocked .45. "You're a stubborn man, Gault," she said wearily. "Most likely it will get you killed before long." Her cheeks looked hollow; there were dark half-circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Thornbrush had torn her clothing in several places, and she was far from clean. Still, there was something about her. Gault could understand how men might do unwise and even dangerous things at her bidding. "Stubborn," she said again, "but not loco, I hope. I don't want to have to kill you." She motioned with the cocked revolver. "Turn around and start walkin'. I'll tell you when you can stop."

  Gault moved slowly toward the bank of the creek. After a few minutes she said, "Here," and handed him a saddle canteen that she picked up along the way. "Take this and fill it."

  Gault climbed gingerly down the clay bank and pushed the canteen into the still water. She said, "I don't guess you've got any whiskey with you."

  Gault looked up, surprised. "No."

  "Or medicine? Any kind of medicine?"

  He shook his head.

  "Have you got any tobacco?"

  Gault capped the canteen and slung it over his shoulder. When he reached the top of the bank he handed her his tobacco and papers. She took them quickly and stepped back, never letting the muzzle of the .45 stray from the center of his chest. "They're plain papers," he said dryly. "Not wheatstraw, like the cigarettes we saw back on your sleepin' porch. But maybe they'll do."

  She looked blank for a moment. Then, with a sudden coldness in her voice, "Yes sir, I wouldn't be surprised if that stubbornness don't get you killed."

  At Esther Garnett's direction, they made their way upstream for several minutes. Gault did not speak. There were questions in his mind—bitter and burning questions—but he did not voice them.

  They passed the Garnett mule and two horses staked in the bottom. The smell of woodsmoke was getting stronger. Suddenly they came upon a clearing where there was a crumbling shack of poles and rawhide. And the ruins of a field that might, at one time, have been planted in squash or corn. The field was now grown up in weeds, and the shack was falling down. The Indian who had started this primitive farm had abandoned it long ago. But the shack was not unoccupied; a faint loop of hardwood smoke rose up from the clay chimney.

  "Go on in the shack," Esther Garnett said, "and I'll think on what I ought to do with you."

  He ducked through the sagging doorway, blinking in the sudden darkness. The only light came from the small fire in the corner fireplace. There was no furniture in the room, but Gault made out two loglike objects on the floor. At first he thought they were rolled beds, one large and one small. Then the small roll cried.

  Esther Garnett snapped angrily, "You be quiet, boy! I don't aim to tell you again!"

  Gault stared from Esther to the small roll, and back to Esther again. "Who is that boy?"

  "The army doc's kid," she said impatiently. "Grady Olsen fetched him here this mornin'. He said it was the only way to get the doc here." She waved the revolver at Gault. "Move over to the corner—there by the door. Set down and stay put—unless you're uncommonly anxious to get yourself shot."

  Reluctantly, Gault did as she ordered. None of what she had told him about the boy made any sense. Gault settled himself in the corner of the shack. Slowly, his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The young boy—he could be no more than six or seven—stared at him in panic. He lay helpless on the floor, to one side of the fireplace, bound hand and foot.

  Esther caught Gault's look of disbelief and snapped, "He tried to run off. I couldn't have that."

  "Why did Olsen bring him here in the first place?"

  She glared at him but didn't bother to answer. Her mood changed suddenly, from irritation to gentleness, as she knelt beside the larger figure. "You all right, Wolf? I had to go after water, and it took some longer'n I figgered on."

  Gault froze.

  "You warm enough?" she asked gently. "I can build up the fire, if you ain't."

  The man murmured something that Gault didn't catch. In the dancing firelight he could see the gaunt, bone-colored face and hot eyes. Was it the face of Wolf Garnett? It was a wasted face, burning with fever. Had he at last come to the end of his nightmare?

  Gault heard himself speaking in a voice he hardly recognized. "Who was it they buried as Wolf Garnett, back in the New Boston graveyard?"

  Esther glared at him and again refused to answer. When Gault started to get to his feet, she grabbed up the revolver and hissed, "If you want me to kill you!"

  Gault hung for a moment, as if suspended on wires. Then, very slowly, he eased himself back into the corner. "It is Wolf, ain't it? It's your brother?"

  She ignored him. He—and the young boy, as well—might never have existed, for all they meant to her. Anxiety mingled with tenderness as she spoke quietly to the figure on the floor. "It won't be long now, Wolf. Grady's comin' with the doc. He'll fix you up fine. You wait and see. Look," she exclaimed, "what I brought you! Cigarette makin's. You want me to make o
ne for you now?"

  The man with the bone-colored face moved his head and sighed.

  With loving care, Esther Garnett shook tobacco into a paper, rolled it awkwardly and licked it into shape. She lit it from an ember in the fireplace, and put it between the man's lips.

  "Wolf Garnett?" Gault asked in a constricted voice.

  Esther turned on him in a cold fury. "Of course, he's Wolf Garnett! My brother never lived thirty years just to get hisself buried in a New Boston graveyard!"

  The man with the feverish face rolled his head and looked disinterestedly at Gault. "He ain't nobody to fret about," Esther assured him. "A cowman, used to be. Name of Gault. You recollect anybody like that?"

  Wolf Garnett's feverish gaze passed wearily over Gault's face. "… No." It wasn't much more than a whisper.

  Gault sat like stone. This was the man that had killed Martha. The thought was a live coal in his brain. He had searched for months and traveled hundreds of miles, driven by the thought of this moment. Yet, he did not move.

  When the cigarette burned down, Esther took it out of her brother's mouth. "You want another one, Wolf?"

  He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his strength. Then he looked at Gault. "What's he doin' here?"

  Esther frowned, and then said thoughtfully, "I ain't right sure. I think maybe he's loco, kind of. He claims you killed his wife."

  Wolf Garnett did not look surprised or even very interested. "When was this?"

  "Nearly a year ago, I think. Shorty Pike was tellin' me. You and some of the boys held up a stagecoach she was in—the coach went off a high road and she was killed."

  Wolf Garnett closed his eyes again and mentally plodded back through a year of violence. "I recollect," he said wearily. "So he's been huntin' me all this time, has he?" The thin lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Kill him."

  In the sudden quiet of the shack the crackling woodfire sounded like pistol shots in Gault's ears. Esther Garnett said slowly, "I don't hardly think I can do it, Wolf. I mean, as long as he just sets there, not makin' a fuss or anything…"