Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  The word never got out of his mouth. The whack of the singletree upside Hughes’s head and the ring of the hooks filled the air. Hughes went down like a poled steer, and only his mother’s panicked intervention stopped Wulf from clubbing Hughes again.

  “Stop! Stop! He’s my husband, Wulf!”

  “That night he beat me with those bridle reins, you never made him stop. The night he used that quirt on me, you didn’t say one word. I’m through taking his mouth and his beatings. How I lost this ranch I’ll never know. Dad promised it to me.”

  “You’re still a boy. You couldn’t run it. You have to be—”

  “I ran it those two years Dad was dying. We paid off the bank. We had things. Now this son of a bitch you married has it all. Why, Mother? Why did that happen?”

  She dropped to her knees and cried in her hands. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand.”

  “Was it to have someone to lay in bed with?”

  “You can’t talk to me like that—” Tears shut off her protests, and Hughes moaned as he tried to get up.

  “Lay right there facedown,” Wulf ordered. “Or I’ll hit you again. Now listen. I’m going to the house. Get my things and Dad’s. Either of you try to stop me, I’ll shoot him. I shot a rabid dog today in town. I consider him no better.”

  “You can’t—” Hughes protested.

  “No, you aren’t telling me anything. The only reason I didn’t kill you tonight was for Mother’s sake. Don’t risk what I’ll do if you push me.”

  In the dimming light, Wulf could see the dark blood and Hughes’s mangled left ear, which his mother blotted with a kerchief. Maybe Hughes wouldn’t be so cocky pretty from here on.

  “Go take anything you want!” she cried out, waving Wulf away. “Just leave us alone!”

  “If that’s the way you want it, fine. I’m going, and he’ll hear from my lawyer. Dad left this place to me. That worthless son of a bitch isn’t cheating me out of my inheritance.”

  His breath raging through his nose, he stormed into the house, took his father’s gun and holster off the hook on the wall, and strapped it on. If she wanted to live with Hughes, fine. He didn’t have to. Maybe this new lawyer in town, Fiest, could help him.

  He heard someone coming into the house. He could tell by the sobbing it was his mother.

  “What do you need?” he asked, sharper than he intended.

  “My shawl. I’m taking Kent to the doctor to have his ear stitched. I don’t know if you know it or not, but you could have killed him.”

  “Mother. Mother. Listen to me. The man’s a bully. He’ll beat you next. Don’t stay with him.”

  “Stand aside. I never thought the boy I raised would turn into such a vicious outlaw.”

  He let her go by. She’d never listen to him anyway. Why was she so stuck on Hughes? There were much better men who had seriously courted her before him.

  Wulf found his father’s spurs, good boots, and felt hat. That and his saddle in the barn would be enough. Though Hughes seldom used any of those things—Wulf wanted them. He wanted them so Hughes didn’t get his hands on them.

  When he went outside in the night, his mother and Hughes whizzed past him in the buggy, and the horse, at breakneck speed, raced out to the lane with her precious cargo. Maybe Hughes’d bleed to death on the way to town. No way. Wulf wasn’t that lucky. He took his father’s heavy hat off. That Stetson would take some getting used to. Then he settled it back down on his head. How could his life be falling apart like this?

  Dad, wherever you are up there, help me.

  In the barn, which was really a tall, open-sided shed, he saddled Calico in the dark under the starlight. All the things he’d planned and dreamed about were going up in smoke. The knot in his throat made it hard to swallow. He could go to Andy’s. Much as he hated to bother them, he needed a place till he got his thinking straight. Chewing on his lower lip, he felt at a loss about what he should do next.

  Had he really expected his mother to leave Hughes over their confrontation? In his heart, yes. They’d been through so much together over the past three years. But he should have known better. Recently, Hughes had managed to drive a steel wedge between them.

  Why did she always believe Hughes instead of him? Hughes had talked her into selling the yearlings. There was no good market for them. Buyers wanted two-year-old steers. Hughes had put the money into his own bank account. Nor would he replace the two roan Durham bulls they’d lost. He’d said thoroughbred stuff was too expensive, and sent Wulf over to his outfit to get two half-longhorn bulls to replace them. They’d sure get some good calves.

  In disgust, Wulf slapped down the stirrup. If he lived to be a hundred, he was going to keep on trying to get this ranch back. With the expensive purple silk scarf, boots, and spurs in a gunnysack tied on the horn, he swung in the saddle and went back by the house. He took his father’s vest and suspenders to add to his things. He also found his father’s long-tail canvas coat in the back hall, and took two blankets and a ground cloth he considered his own. On the kitchen floor, he rolled them up and bound them with rawhide lacing.

  When he went out the front door, his heart stopped. He was leaving his home. The only one he’d ever known. His gear tied on his saddle, he headed Calico for Mason under the stars.

  At the edge of town, he waited for daylight before he rode up to Andy’s place in town. Sitting cross-legged on the ground in the cool night gave him lots of time to think. There was no way he could stay around Mason. Shifting sand from hand to hand with Ranger’s head in his lap, he wondered how to handle it all. He had no money. Should of thought of that before he’d beaten the hell out of Hughes. They owed him, but he had no way to collect that.

  If he had not promised Andy to stay till the following Saturday for those dog trials, he’d already be a long ways from there. There was no justice and no God in his life. When the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, he rose, shoved the big hat on the back of his head, brushed his butt off, and vaulted into the saddle. Maybe Andy would have some answers.

  “That you, Wulf?” Andy’s wife, Myrna, called out from inside the kitchen when he knocked on the door facing.

  “Yes, ma’ am.”

  “Well, come in and wash up. You had any breakfast?”

  No, he had not ate in twenty-four hours. “No, ma’am.”

  “Put that hat on the rack there and come inside.”

  “Morning, Wulf, what brings you to town so early on Sunday morning?” Andy asked.

  “I had all I could take last night, Andy. All I could take.” Wulf dried his hands on the towel. “He started in about cutting my horse. Next thing, he took a swing at me, and so I used a singletree on him.”

  Andy’s eyes narrowed. “Is he still alive?”

  Wulf nodded sharply. “But I guess if my mother hadn’t stopped me—he might not of survived.”

  “Sounds serious. Sit down. Myrna, get him some coffee. This might be big trouble.”

  “How is that?”

  “Hughes will make a formidable enemy. You being a minor and all. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “When will you be eighteen?”

  “Next December. How does that work?”

  “I’m not certain. But we need to see your new friend, that lawyer Fiest, first thing Monday morning.”

  “Can he help us?”

  “Best shot that we’ve got.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Andy put his large hands on the tabletop and folded them. “Being a minor means you can’t do lots of things, and till next December you’re a minor.”

  “What’ll happen?” Myrna asked, pouring the steaming coffee in their cups.

  Andy sat back in the kitchen chair and let his arms drop. “I ain’t sure.”

  What was eating his guts out, besides hunger, while he was sitting at the table in the bright little house Andy and Myra lived in? Fear of the unknown? There were lots of things he had no answers for. Ma
ybe he simply should have run? But he’d promised Andy—

  Kent Hughes was the sumbitch causing it all.

  TWO

  BILLINGS, Montana, was hosting a bitter March snow- storm that same Sunday morning. Looking out the second-story window from his office at the blinding flakes, the wind tearing at the eaves in a high-pitched whistle, Sheriff Herschel Baker dreaded hiking the three blocks back to his house. His wife, Marsha, and his three stepdaughters usually attended church on the Sabbath. This looked like a day they’d miss services. He doubted many others would make it either.

  He said good-bye to his new night jailer, Billy Short, and satisfied all was well there, he buttoned up his heavy coat and started for home. Storms like these made him wish he’d taken up the offer of his father, Thurman, to help ramrod his new south Texas spread—maybe his blood was too thin. His head turned sideways, the wool Scotch cap bound down by a scarf as he bent into the wind and rock-hard bits of ice pecked his face.

  Men got lost and died in storms like this, and cattle roamed off their home range, walking over fences buried under the white stuff. Grateful his cattle down on Horse Creek had hay to keep them in place, and that the valley was somewhat sheltered by the hills, he went step by step into the biting wind, headed for his house.

  At last, he burst into the warm interior of his living room with a grateful feeling of relief. Stomping his snowy boots on the rug set there for that purpose, he nodded to the girls seated in a ring before the fireplace.

  “We aren’t going to church today,” five-year-old Sarah announced.

  He stood on the carpet and agreed. Marsha came out of the kitchen with a smile. “I’m certain the Lord will forgive us.” She helped him take off his heavy coat and cap and hung them in the hall.

  “This storm is a fright,” she said, pulling the scarf off his neck and kissing him.

  He gave her a quick hug, then shed his outer layer of pants. “I can tell you one thing. It isn’t ever this cold and bad in south Texas.”

  “You thinking about your father?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking about a place to get warm.” He went to the fireplace to hold out his hands and warm himself. “Aw, every place on earth, I guess, has its drawbacks when it comes to weather. Montana winters are our tough times.”

  “What’s bad in Texas?”

  “Heat and drought.”

  Marsha brought him a steaming cup of coffee and he winked at her. “Thanks.”

  The morning passed with the girls singing hymns and the oldest, Kate, playing the used piano he’d bought at an auction. Marsha said she thought that would suffice for their church for that week. He read the latest newspaper from Minneapolis.

  After dinner, there came a knock on the door. Slocum frowned and went to answer it. The snowy man he let in was his chief deputy, Art Spencer. He was short, broad, and built like a bull. Today, even Art’s large handlebar mustache was coated in snow.

  Herschel had a feeling something was bad wrong the moment he looked at him. “What’s happened?”

  “Three men robbed and half killed old Buffalo Malone.”

  “When?”

  “I guess yesterday or the day before. That old breed works for Malone, Happy Jack, is frostbit and nearly froze to death over at Doc’s office. He said his horse died coming in and he walked the rest of the way.”

  “He say how much they got?”

  “You can’t half understand that old man, but he said thousands of dollars. I can hardly believe that old buck-skinner had that much money.”

  “You know, he might have. He spends very little, and heaven knows what he had to start with. He always paid cash for what he got.” But Herschel could hardly imagine the squaw man having that big a fortune.

  “You’re right about that. What’re we going to do about it?”

  “Good question. It’s impossible to get up there today. We’ll have to hope for a break in the weather. Did Malone’s man say who did it?”

  “No, he said he didn’t know them.” Art, out of his heavy coat, acknowledged the girls and thanked Marsha for taking the coat.

  “Have you had dinner, Art?” Marsha asked. “We have plenty left over. I can fix you a plate.”

  He grinned at Marsha’s offer. “That would be wonderful and sure worth the hike up here.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, and hurried off to fix him a plate of food.

  Art sat across from Herschel at the dining table and began to fill him in. “Happy Jack said they rode up and asked Malone if would he sell them a meal. He told them to get down and he’d have his squaws fix them a meal for twenty-five cents apiece.

  “They ate the meal that Malone’s wives fixed for them, and then they drew their guns on the old man. They demanded he tell them where he kept his money, and he said he had none. They never believed it, and began to torture him, burned his soles with hot irons. Then they half hung him—he said nothing. But when they started to torture his youngest Sioux woman, he told them where it was.

  “It took three packhorses to haul off the money. Happy Jack said most of it was coins. Buffalo didn’t believe in paper money or banks. They even stole three of his best horses to haul it away.”

  “White men?”

  “Yes. One was older. Happy Jack thought that they might be father and sons.”

  “But he’d never seen them before?” Herschel touched his forehead with his fingertips. This crime sounded more bizarre by the minute.

  Art paused in his eating and held the fork near his plate. “You know, Happy Jack gets drunk whenever he comes to town. I doubt he knows many of us even.”

  “That’s right. Did he think Malone knew or recognized them?”

  “No. Happy Jack said neither Buffalo nor the women has ever seen these men before.”

  “How would they simply ride up to his place and know that old man had any money?” Herschel shook his head. Malone’s place looked like a Sioux buffalo hunting camp, not a bank to make a large withdrawal out of.

  “I can’t tell you a thing more than that.”

  “Oh, you did good, Art, getting all that out of that half-frozen half-breed.” Herschel rose and looked out the window at the thousands of white moths streaming past. The high pitch of the wind outside whistled at him. Somewhere out there, three tough men with heavily loaded packhorses were getting away with the loot.

  Damn, and he was locked in until this blessed storm broke.

  THREE

  EARLY monday morning, Wulf and Andy found Robert Fiest in his new office over Shipley’s Store. Surrounded by the boxes of law books and papers strewn all over the room, the young man looked up at them.

  “Good morning, how are you fellows?”

  “Fine,” Wulf said. “I have a problem, it seems, and you told me—”

  “Hey, anything I can do for you. I’m in your debt.”

  “Well, it’s a long story.”

  “Let’s clear some things away and we can all sit down. This is a legal matter, I take it?”

  “Oh, yes, and Mr. Fiest, this is Andy Carter, my friend.”

  They each emptied a chair and carried it over, and met in the center of the room, where they set the chairs up. The morning sun slanted in the bay window, and at Fiest’s request, Wulf started at the beginning.

  “My father was dying from cancer for two years. I ran the ranch on his instructions until his last six months, when I had to do it all by myself. Mr. Jacobs at the First State Bank will tell you I paid off the debt we owed. Fifteen hundred dollars.

  “Kent Hughes came courting my mother six months after Dad finally died. She married him, I thought too quickly, but I ain’t judging, ’cept him and I don’t get along.

  “Then he sold the yearlings. Heifers and steers last fall. Give them away and he put the money in his own account.”

  “Did your father leave a will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a copy of it?”

  “No. It’s in the bank.”

&
nbsp; “Can you get a copy of it?”

  “I don’t think so. Hughes had me taken off the account.” Wulf grew more upset the further he went into his story.

  “Was the will filed?”

  “Yes, but somehow Hughes got my mother to sign everything over to him.”

  Fiest nodded. “I can do some research and learn all I can. Then we can decide what to do.”

  “One more thing,” Wulf said. Then he sucked on his lower lip for a moment. “Hughes tried to whip me Saturday night. I stopped him with a singletree.”

  Fiest looked startled. “Is he dead?”

  “No, but he’s got a mangled left ear and a bad headache, I’d say.”

  “Had he whipped you before?”

  “At least twice severely. Once with bridle reins and another time with a damn quirt. I took them beatings. I wasn’t taking any more.”

  “I may have to ask for a change in your guardianship.”

  “Do what you have to.”

  “I’ll be the guardian,” Andy said. “If he needs one.”

  “Good. As a businessman, you’d have a strong reputation. Wulf, you stay with Andy. I’ll check at the courthouse and see if any charges have been filed against you. We can go from there.”

  “Charges?”

  “Yes, he may have filed assault charges against you.”

  Wulf dropped his chin. This became more complicated by the hour. Shame he didn’t just kill Hughes and they could try him for murder.

  “We’ll be at the shop or my house on Westmoreland Street,” Andy said.

  “Good, I’ll go to the courthouse and see what I can learn and check back with you in a few hours.”

  They left the office and went back to open Andy’s smithy. A man stopped by and wanted a shoe reset on his horse. Wulf took the job. Wearing a leather apron, he held the right front hoof in his lap and began to pry the loose shoe off with nippers.

  “How do you do this work barefooted?” the man in the business suit who owned the horse asked, looking amazed.

  “Damn careful,” Wulf said. “I just feel freer being barefooted when its not too cold.”