Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  “Hell, yes. Now I may never walk again. My feet hurt so bad. I was foolish not to give it to them at first, but I thought I was still a tough old man.”

  “I’m sorry, and I intend to find them.”

  “Why would you do that for an old buff like me? You’re a busy man. I’m a squaw man with more women than Brigham Young. I don’t even vote.”

  Herschel looked over at Malone. “I catch them, you better vote for me next election.”

  Malone laughed out loud. “If I have to crawl there on my hands on knees, I’ll vote for you.”

  “Good.” Now where did those three go with Malone’s gold?

  FIVE

  YOUR Honor, my client is not any danger to this community, nor is he going to flee,” the young attorney told the judge as Wulf and Fiest stood before the bench.

  The judge looked serious. “They took several stitches in the plaintiff’s head.”

  “Turn around and raise your shirt,” Fiest said to Wulf. “Show him your back. See these scars? They are the result of Kent Hughes flailing him with a quirt.”

  The judge had risen to look over the bench at Wulf’s scars. When he settled in his chair, he looked more upset. “Your client must promise to refrain from fighting with Mr. Hughes any more and remain in this county until his trial is over.”

  “I’ll see to that, sir.”

  “I hope you realize that using a singletree on a man is felony assault?”

  Fiest quickly looked over at Wulf, and he understood from his lawyer’s expression that he did not want him to contest the judge’s statement. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I’ll release him until his trial in two weeks.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Fiest said, and Wulf nodded. They left the courtroom and once outside, Fiest put his hand on Wulf’s shoulder. “I am filing a lawsuit against Hughes for violating the probate of your father’s estate. It will work. His sale of those cattle and not placing the money in the estate’s account will be rectified in court.”

  “I sure don’t know about all this legal business, but I’m hoping something will work.”

  “It will, Wulf. What are you going to do now?”

  “Andy is setting up a wild goat-penning contest with this famous Colonel Armstrong who’s coming to town. Andy thinks my dog Ranger can beat any dog the Colonel’s got.”

  “Can he?”

  “I think so. He’s a great dog.”

  “When will that take place?” Fiest led them into the Blue Mill Café. “I’m buying you a real meal. That jail food isn’t very good.”

  “You’re right about their food. The competition will probably be Sunday or Monday, since the public show is Saturday.”

  They took a center table. An attractive girl in her late teens with a Dutch accent waited on them. In a starched blue and white uniform, she looked fresh as a Texas bluebonnet.

  “What do you want to eat?” Fiest asked from behind his menu.

  Wulf had removed his big hat and she asked for it. What did she want his hat for?

  “I’ll put it on the rack,” she said, and he handed it over.

  Whew, she was pretty, and he was half-cocked anyway. Just to be out of that pissy, smelly jail, being before the judge, all Fiest had told him about the probate business, and to walk into this restaurant and see her—it all got to him like a Texas dust devil.

  “What’re you having?” he whispered at Fiest while she was hanging his hat on the peg.

  “I’ll order for both of us. You drink coffee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Miss, I don’t know your name,” Fiest said, and Wulf listened like a hawk for her reply.

  “Dulchy Hiestman.”

  “Dulchy,” Fiest began. “We both want scrambled eggs, fried ham, German fried potatoes, biscuits and gravy, as well as coffee.”

  “Tank you.” She made a small curtsy and disappeared into the back.

  “I saw those signs—” Fiest stopped, and Wulf realized he was talking to him. Why didn’t he know this Dulchy? Man, she was sure pretty.

  “Oh, the Colonel, huh?” He tried to get back on track with Fiest. “I don’t know him. But my father told me all about all those people. They train their dogs and they train their sheep, so when a strange dog comes around, those sheep go wild. Dad said you couldn’t beat them, though there will be lots of folks with good dogs that will try on Saturday.”

  “You won’t enter that competition?”

  “No, but we’re hoping that this Colonel is so proud of his dogs that he thinks he can beat Ranger or any other dog in the world.”

  “Does he have good dogs?”

  “Yeah, he wouldn’t come and make such offers like that unless he really had well-trained ones. ’Cause he’s got to have plenty of the competitions or lose money.”

  Dulchy brought them coffee, and he had a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow. He finally managed a weak “Thanks.”

  Maybe the hot steaming coffee would help him.

  “Back to business,” Fiest said. “Is this Kent Hughes rich?”

  “You asking me or him?”

  The lawyer chuckled. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s got an outfit. One Mexican named Sanchez runs it for him. How big can that be?”

  “You ever been over there? Seen it?”

  “I went over one time to pick up two half-longhorn bulls he was putting in with our cows since we lost two good Durham bulls. He sent me over there and I knew he figured there was no way I could get those two bulls and drive them through ten miles of open range back to our place by myself.”

  “You did it, of course?”

  “Ranger, Calico, and I did it in four hours. You should have seen his face when I drove the bulls down the lane. I mean, he like to lost his jaw it sagged so far.”

  “What about his place?”

  “Some jacales. Some pens made out of poles, some fighting chickens scratching at horse apples, and a few straight-tail shoats running around. Old Sanchez wasn’t doing nothing the day I got there. Said he’d hired six vaqueros to gather those two bulls, and it took them a week to get them up there in the corrals. Hughes told me earlier that he left them bulls ’cause they were such outstanding animals. I think they just got away as calves. He wasn’t fooling me. Their brands were real fresh and they were three years old. They won’t get calves like a good Scottish shorthorn bull will get. They were just cheap.”

  “You and that dog of yours have trouble with them?”

  Wulf laughed. “Ranger chewed on their ears and heels a little and they soon learned my rules of the road.”

  Dulchy delivered their heaping platters of food. Wulf’s eyes about bugged out when she said, “I’ll get the biscuits and gravy next. Either of you need hot sauce?”

  He looked straight into her sky blue eyes. “I sure do, ma’am.”

  A smile turned her mouth up. “I’ll bring it back, too.”

  They ate breakfast, laughing and talking about his dog and the trial ahead.

  “We may have to show your back to the jury, I know Judge Arnold was shocked today when he saw it.”

  “What did you say the legal term was for what I did?” Wulf blew on his second cup of coffee.

  “Self-defense. Under the law, if a man is coming to kill you, you have the right of self-defense. Taking whatever measure is required to stop him.”

  Wulf nodded. It sure felt better to be in the café with other free men than that jail cell he’d slept in for two days and nights. Whew. The rich food drew the saliva into his mouth—and this Dulchy blew his mind away. Why didn’t he know her?

  “You’ll have to dress up for your court appearance. We need you in a suit and tie.”

  “I’ll get a shirt and pants. I have my dad’s neckerchief, suspenders, vest, and boots.”

  “Come as a cowboy. That will work in Texas. I will probably see you at the big show then?”

  “Yes. I want to see the Colonel’s dogs in action.”

  “How can
I get in on this other bet?”

  “You need to talk to Andy. He’s doing that. Thanks for the meal.”

  “You’re welcome. You stay out of trouble.”

  Wulf then left the Blue Mill Café and went to Mr. Farnsworth’s Dry Goods. The short man with the square glasses on the end of his nose greeted him when the bell tinkled overhead.

  “My, my, Mr. Baker, what may I do for you?”

  “I need a pair of pants, not overalls, and a long-sleeve shirt and some socks.”

  Farnsworth measured his waist. “We need the pants big enough so when they shrink, they’ll still fit you.”

  Wulf agreed. His mother always bought his pants. He knew nothing about buying them. Farnsworth told him wool was the best material, and he went and got a pair of black wool pants and presented them to Wulf for him to try on. They were way too long, and Wulf had to hold them up for they’d fit a fatter man—but they’d shrink. The little man, on his knees, soon had the hem pinned, and Wulf went back to put on his overalls. This dressing up for the court looked like it would be a pain.

  The black and white pinstripe shirt was a pull-over with three buttons. The material was heavy, and the little man promised it would be long lasting. It, too, was plenty large. The socks were wool as well. Farnsworth said the pants would be hemmed in two hours, and that Wulf owed him three dollars.

  “I’ll be back in two hours and have the money.”

  “Oh, you can charge it on your mother’s account.”

  He considered that for a moment. “No, I’ll have the money when I come back.”

  Maybe he was bragging. Where would he get three dollars? He’d try Andy first. Dang, he had no money of his own. Before, he’d never needed anything he couldn’t simply charge. His life had taken another twist. To survive in this world, he’d need a job.

  Who’d hire him? What could he do for money? How could he impress that girl back at the café? Dulchy. A barefoot kid wouldn’t ever do that. Maybe it was time for him to grow up. He’d talk to Andy about a loan.

  He walked into the blacksmith shop, and Andy smiled at him, sweaty-faced while pounding on some iron strap at the anvil. He put his things down and shed his gloves. Meanwhile, Wulf untied Ranger and tousled his ears. Grateful to see him, the collie sat perfectly still as he’d been taught until Wulf told him to go make a run. Then, he bounded away like someone grateful to be free.

  “Good to see you. Bob said he’d get you out today.”

  “It wasn’t too soon. Say, I need a loan.”

  “How much?”

  “Three dollars. I bought some clothes down at Farnsworth’s is to wear for the trial.”

  “I can pay you three, but you can earn it shoeing Joseph Simons’s mule team.”

  “How come so much?”

  “They aren’t easy to handle. We may have to lay them down to shoe them.” Andy laughed. “But I figured an animal trainer like you can figure them out. They’re hitched up out back.”

  Wulf considered what he needed for mules. “You have a twitch to put on them?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll need someone to hold it.”

  “No problem. We can get one of the town loafers to do that for two beers. That’s twenty cents.”

  “I can shoe them. They really must be wild.”

  “They aren’t kittens.”

  “Find me the man to hold them and I’ll get on those mules.”

  When Wulf came around the corner behind the shop, the right mule caught sight of him. He laid back his ears and prepared to kick him, braying like a wild ass at the top of his lungs. Before the mule could kick, Wulf had him by the tail and pulled himself up so he was standing on the mule’s back knee with one foot, using the mule’s tail for his balance and kicking him in the soft part of his belly with the other foot.

  The mule stopped braying and went to screaming. Wulf knew every time he buried his big toe in that mule’s underside, he hurt him. It was only minutes before Wulf moved up and stood by the mule’s dropped head. Trembling all over, the mule looked ready to collapse. Speaking very softly to him, he untied the heavy lead rope. When the mule did not respond, he slapped him in the soft underbelly with the lead rope and woke him up.

  He led the mule inside the barn, where a scruffy-looking man stood holding the twitch in his hand. Wulf tied the mule up short to a ring on the post.

  “Just stand there. He may not be any trouble today.”

  The man nodded as Wulf put on the leather apron. He’d drawn a crowd of onlookers at the open front doors to watch how he did it. He heard someone say, That’s one of Joe Simons’s mules—

  He carefully lifted the left front hoof, and the mule murmured to him. All the time, he was speaking to the mule. The hoof in his lap, he pried off the worn shoe. When he dropped the hoof, there was a sigh from the crowd.

  “Hell, that ain’t one of Joe’s mules. He’s got a ringer in there.”

  “Go look. His mate’s out back. That’s damn sure his mule.”

  Andy helped, punching holes in the shoe blank for the nails. Wulf heated and made them the right size to fit the freshly shaped hoof. Soon, the mule was shod on all four hooves, and the crowd stepped back when he started for the second mule. At a safe distance, the small mob of onlookers moved in a wave around after him to see this operation.

  When Wulf came around the corner and walked under the live oak tree, the second mule went to kicking and braying. Wulf reached over and took the twitch from Charlie. “I don’t have time for him. Besides, my toe is sore from kicking that other devil.”

  The mule flashed his yellow teeth and snapped them like a bear trap at Wulf. Avoiding the bite and using his right hand, Wulf reached up, grasped his long ear, and bit down hard. The mule’s cries went from anger to pain and Wulf, with a full bite on him, put the twitch on his upper lip unscathed. Wrapping the loop of chain on the mule’s lip, he twisted the chain on the stick until the mule froze with his top lip pulled away from his teeth.

  “Now, Jack,” Wulf said to the mule. “I don’t have all day for this training. So you better act nice.” And he led the distressed mule around and inside the shop. Andy tied the mule’s lead. Wulf gave Charlie the twitch handle to hold, and out in the street the onlookers clapped their hands.

  In record time, the second mule was shod, and then the two were led out and retied in back. Joe Simons came along and shouted at Andy, “When’re you getting to my mules?”

  “Why, Wulf shod them an hour ago.”

  “That boy shod them? They kick or bite you?” Joe looked shocked.

  “The left one kicked at me, but I kicked him right back and I bet he don’t kick no more.” Wulf put down the horse’s hoof he was working on and straightened his back.

  “Well, I’ll have to see it. What do I owe you, Andy?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “Kinda high, ain’tcha?”

  Andy put his hands on his hips, looking peeved. “No one else would touch those crazy mules. I figured I’d have to lay them down to shoe them. I’d say five dollars was cheap on those mules.”

  “All right, all right, but I doubt I’ll be back.” Joe went to digging the money out of his pocket. After paying Andy, he left.

  “I thought he knew the charge.” Wulf shook his head in dismay at the man’s complaint as Andy handed him the three dollars.

  “He knew what it was going to be. He just conveniently forgot what I told him about those mules. Don’t worry, ain’t no one else in Mason going to shoe his wild mules. They know them.”

  After completing the job he was on, Wulf ran down to Farnsworth’s, picked up his new clothing, and paid the man.

  “You have any trouble or need more clothing, you just call on me,” Farnsworth said.

  “I will, sir. Thanks again.” If Robert Fiest didn’t do something, his next suit would be prison stripes and he wouldn’t need a tailor.

  At Andy’s house, Myrna hung the clothes up with the vest, suspenders, and the silk kerchief. �
��That outfit will look real nice. Your daddy would have been proud of you.”

  He sure hoped so. He thought about wearing his outfit to the dog trials on Saturday, but Andy changed his mind, saying, “A barefoot boy in overalls would be someone I’d figured I could beat easy at a wild goat-herding.”

  That sure made sense. But he wondered if Dulchy would be there at the ballpark, or if she might have to work. There would be a big crowd in town for the event. Mason’s social schedule was normally not crowded, so this was a big thing and there would be lots of folks from far and near cheering on their relative or neighbor in the ring competing against the Colonel’s dogs.

  The stands were packed by one o’clock. The short wooden panels like those used at shearing time were set up on the baseball field to fence in the event, and the folks standing around made a larger crowd. There was a peanut-roaster stand doing land-office business and hot-popcorn merchant selling small bags of it for a nickel.

  The Colonel’s troupe came in three large red-and-gold-trimmed wagons with painted signs of him and his dogs at work. Wulf slipped around down there, hoping to look over the black and white Border collies lolling their tongues out in the sun’s warm heat. Six good-looking dogs, slick coats and very alert looking.

  “You like dogs, boy?” a deep voice asked from behind.

  “Yes, sir,” he told the tall man in tan pants, white shirt, and black tie with an expensive white Boss of the Plains Stetson hat on his head.

  “Those you are looking at are the dogs of the kings in Scotland. Cost five hundred dollars apiece over there—untrained. Of course, I wanted them trained by my methods.”

  Wulf agreed.

  “Well, things are about to get under way. I hope you get your money’s worth this afternoon—what is it, Nor-ton?” the Colonel asked one of his men who’d ran up.

  “There are some men here that want to challenge you to a wild goat-herding contest.”

  “Oh, they do, huh?”

  “They want to bet that a local dog can beat one of your dogs at herding three goats into a trap.”

  “How much are they willing to bet?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”