Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  The old man went back to his whittling. “I seen lots of horses go by today.”

  “Two men. One’s tall. One’s short, got long blond hair.”

  “Real tall?”

  “Yes, sir, his name is Kinney.”

  “No, it ain’t, if we’re talking ’bout the same worthless sumbitch. His name is McKinney. Oral McKinney, and that other little twist is called the Culpepper Kid.” The old man spit in the dust between his run-over boots. Wiped his mouth on the back of his sun-spotted hands. “Now they wouldn’t hang around town much, but they might be hid out at Mrs. Clary’s place.”

  “Where’s that at?”

  “Oh, she’s got a place east of here about three miles. It’ll be on the left. Two-story house right on the road. You can’t miss it.” The old man spit again and then looked up. “Don’t tell your mom you’ve been out there.” Then he laughed. “I hope you get your horse back.”

  “He’s out there, I’ll get him.”

  At sundown, he located the house of ill repute. If that’s what it was. With all the horses standing hipshot at the rack, plus the tinny piano music drifting out the open doors and windows, as well as the women dressed in their underwear flouncing in and out of the house kissing and rubbing on cowboys on the porch—he figured he’d found Mrs. Clary’s place.

  Riding up easy, he looked over the horses at the hitch rack. Kentucky wasn’t there. Then he heard a familiar nicker, and rode past the house up under the tall oaks to the corral. There, going back and forth up and down along the fence, was Kentucky.

  He hitched his six-gun around and dismounted. Goose was trained to be ground-tied, so Wulf dropped the reins. Letting himself in the corral, he said, “Here.”

  The big horse whirled and came to him, laying his head on Wulf’s chest. Wulf found a cookie in his vest pocket and fed it to him.

  “Interested in that horse, cowboy?” a short man on the outside asked, standing aside in the twilight.

  “I could be.”

  “He’s cheap. Fifty bucks, and he’s a racing horse.”

  Wulf left Kentucky and went out the gate. Even if the man had seen him before, he’d never seen him dressed like this. Still, every nerve in his body tingled, and he wondered how fast he could draw down on this fella.

  “Yeah, helluva horse. Too much to handle for the last owner. You look like you get along good.”

  “We should. He’s my horse.”

  The kid gave out a loud “Huh?” His hand went for his gun.

  Wulf went for his own.

  FOURTEEN

  TWO cold days later, Herschel rode into Sundance. Dark ominous clouds were spitting snow, and they looked like they’d only begun. He found that the wagon yard was a complete operation—stables, hotel, and café. It also served as the stage stop. After he stabled Cob, he went and took a bath.

  He felt disappointed that the man who handled the stable had not seen the McCafferty clan or anyone with three paint horses in tow. When he finished shaving and was walking down the hall, he looked out the window he went past. In the twilight, the snow was falling in big flakes the size of goose feathers. Had the robbers doubled back or cut south on him?

  Times like these, he’d’ve given a lot to have been home with Marsha and the girls. Popping popcorn in the fireplace, playing his harmonica for them to dance to. Instead, he was going to share a bunkroom with some grunting grizzly bears who could fart as loud as they snored. The girl in her teens took his order for supper. A fresh-cut elk steak, large-size portion, and mashed potatoes and sweet corn. She also promised him bread pudding for dessert.

  He was sitting alone when a man in a business suit asked if he could join him. Herschel told him yes, and motioned to the chair opposite him.

  “Randolph Cunningham.” The man put his bowler hat on the chair beside him. “New York City is where I am from.”

  “Herschel Baker, Billings, Montana.”

  “You are a long ways from home, too. But you have a drawl.”

  “I was born and raised in Texas.”

  “Ah-ha. My ears have not deceived me. Good to meet you, sir.” Cunningham shook out his cloth napkin. Without a look at the menu, he told the girl, “The same thing he’s having.” Then he turned back to Herschel.

  “I could ask why a man from New York is in Sundance, Wyoming,” Herschel said.

  “Coal. I understand west of here there are vast deposits of fine-burning coal.”

  “I guess the only thing that keeps it in the ground is that there is not a railroad to pack it out.”

  “Exactly. But the rails will come. Investing in coal-bearing acreage now, before the iron rails get here, might be a good way to increase my wealth.”

  Herschel agreed with a smile.

  “That answers your question,” said Cunningham. “What does a transplanted Texan do in Montana?”

  “We have a ranch up there, my wife Marsha and I. I’m also the sheriff of Yellowstone County.”

  Cunningham leaned back as if to appraise him. “And you are not down here on vacation?”

  “No. A man was tortured and robbed of a large fortune by three men. I am on their trail.”

  “My, my. How far are you from home?”

  “Doesn’t matter. That old man may never walk again, they burned his feet so badly.”

  “You take your job very seriously.”

  Their food arrived. Herschel nodded. Maybe he took it too seriously at times.

  “You say it is lots of money they stole.”

  “Upwards of thirty thousand dollars.”

  “They did make a big haul. How did some old man in Montana ever acquire that much money?”

  “Dug up some Spanish treasure.”

  “Ah, gold doubloons, huh?”

  “Exactly, and lots of them.”

  “Here we are in this rather unique way station. Me looking for a quarter million dollars in coal land, and you looking for thirty thousand in treasure.” He raised a bite of his steak on his fork. “It is rather tasty meat.”

  “I like good elk.”

  “How close are you to the felons?”

  “Not far.”

  Cunningham used the napkin to wipe his mouth. Then, looking taken aback, he asked, “They staying here?”

  “No, but I think they are in this area.”

  He swallowed hard and nodded across at Herschel. “Be sure to advise me when they get close. I want to duck and hide.”

  After his meal, Herschel parted with Cunningham and decided to check out some of the bars and try for more information. Bundled up for the weather, he left the wagon yard. The snow was already at the tops of his boots in the street when he mushed over to O’Malley’s Saloon. It was going to be a real snow. Still falling by the inches each hour. He stomped his boots off on the porch of the saloon, and found the doorknob loose when he tried to turn it. At last, it engaged and opened.

  “Come in, stranger,” the red-faced bartender shouted at him.

  “Thanks.” He beat his hat against his leg to remove the snow, put it back on before he took off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Glass of beer.”

  “Coming up.”

  Waiting for his beer, he turned, and could see several men in the smoky atmosphere of the place. Cards games at some tables, serious drinkers at others, they all paid him little heed. He was looking for a scar-faced man. A big man.

  “What brings ya to Sundance, sir?” the Irishman asked, delivering his beer.

  “You know Tally McCafferty?”

  The bartender looked all around and then lowered his voice. “Aye, I know him. He was in here yesterday, but you’ll not get him to help you.” The man dropped his voice more. “He hit a rich vein and said he ain’t doing no more road-agent work.”

  “He’s gone, huh?”

  “Spearfish or Deadwood. Him and his boys going to celebrate a little before they ride home.”

  Herschel nodded.

  “
You must a rode with the Whittens, huh?”

  Herschel nodded. “Guess he’s still on that place south of the reservation.”

  “Yeah, in Nebraska. Shame you missed him. He left this morning.”

  With that knowledge, he paid for his beer and went back to the wagon yard. He found Cunningham in the lobby reading a newspaper.

  “Any luck?” the man dropped his paper to ask.

  “They left this morning.”

  “You are close. Good luck.”

  “Same to you.”

  Herschel turned in for the night. He didn’t sleep well, and before dawn he was dressed and out looking the situation over. He’d better wait a day. The sun might evaporate and melt enough of the snow to make it easier on Cob. He went back inside and had breakfast.

  If the McCaffertys didn’t stop in Deadwood or Spearfish, he’d head home, take public transportation to Ogallala, and ride north from there to find them. That country south of the Black Hills was as desolate as any place he knew.

  At dawn the next day after breakfast, he started east. The day dragged by and the sun’s progress disappointed him. The stage had trampled out some of the snow and the going wasn’t bad, except he had to get off the road for wagons and let them pass. He was a day and a half getting to Spearfish. After lots of inquiring, he decided the robbers hadn’t stopped there but had gone on to Deadwood.

  He found Deadwood was all slush and mud. Folks went from one side of Main Street to the other crossing on boards. He put Cob up in a livery near the base of the hill. No one there he spoke to had noticed any paint packhorses. He began going to the various saloons and gambling halls that lined Main. In the smoke-hazed interiors lit by candles, and a few by kerosene, it would have been hard to recognize anyone.

  But he was looking and listening for any lead he could find. It was behind McCombs’s Livery on the back street where he noticed two big horses with packsaddle marks on them. Then he found the paints covered with dried-on mud. No one would have recognized them. Standing on the pole corral to better view them, he twisted around. Where were the robbers? Good question. With the thousands crowding up in that gulch called Main, they could be anywhere.

  “Them Tally McCafferty’s horse stock?” he asked the man who was supervising the hostlers.

  “I got it down as Calvin McCafferty.”

  “Same gent. Where’s he staying? I’ve got something for him.”

  “Kate Malloy’s. What’ cha got?” The man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  “I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise for him.”

  “This whole gawdamn world’s full of surprises.”

  Herschel agreed, thanked him, and headed back for Main Street. Malloy’s house of ill repute was on Main over the Texas Saloon.

  A buxom woman wearing only a chemise and a short slip blocked the doorway at the head of the stairs. “Can’t you read, you dumb son of a bitch? The sign down there said closed for a private party.”

  “I’m part of it,” he said, and kept climbing.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Colt. See the one in my fist?”

  She sucked in her breath and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Stop him!”

  “Stand aside!” Herschel ordered. “And shut up.”

  A bullet crashed into the door facing beside him, and he took her down to save her from being shot. Pinning her facedown with one hand and with his gun in the other, he tried to see the fleeing men going out the open back door.

  He took aim and shot at the last one. The man faltered and went down.

  “Who are you?” she asked through her teeth, still pressed to the floor facedown underneath him.

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker.”

  “You just ruined one helluva party we were having here.”

  “Lady, I could care less than you can imagine.”

  “What’s going on up here?” a tall patrolman demanded, clambering up the stairs.

  “We have a man shot up here and needs a doctor immediately.”

  “Who in the hell’re you?”

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Baker.”

  The officer shook his head. Then he turned to the stairs to shout for someone down there to go find the doc. Some of the girls had the kid braced up against the wall when the two of them got back there. The front of his shirt was turning red with his blood. No telling where the bullet went in.

  “August?” Herschel asked.

  “Who the hell—’re you?”

  “The man that’s been looking high and low for you. Buffalo Malone sent you his best wishes.” Herschel looked up. Three scantily dressed girls were picking up scattered gold coins off the floor. “Put ’em all on the bed. That’s evidence, girls.”

  “Aw!”

  “Watch that money they’re picking up,” Herschel said to the lawman. “Those other two are getting away.”

  “Don’t you run, mister. There will be a hearing over this.”

  “I said I was a deputy U.S. marshal.”

  “Don’t mean shit to me.”

  “I’ll be here. Right now I want to catch them.” Reloading his .45 Colt, he rumbled down the stairs. They must be packing and saddling in a hurry at that livery.

  On the muddy street below, he crossed to the far side and edged down the side of the building. When he snuck a peek, someone clipped off chucks of red brick with a rifle.

  He could hear an impatient man shouting orders. “... keep him pinned down, there’ll be more.”

  Using his hat on his gun barrel, he drew their fire. Then he quickly dropped the hat and took three shots at the entrance to the livery. Picking up his hat, he knew from the sounds that they were riding out the back way.

  One option he had was to run downhill, cross the bridge, and try to head them off. He took it, running as hard as he could. They tore by going south, and he decided to down a packhorse. It was not the best thought, but he shot the last paint packhorse and it skidded down. The two outlaws looked back in shock, still beating their horses and the two big horses, still loaded, along with the two paints.

  They were soon gone up the canyon. Herschel stood in the warming sunshine and reloaded. He used another bullet to put the pony down. The horse had been expendable. He’d cut the McCaffertys’ take by a third and had Malone’s retirement fund.

  “Why did you shoot the horse?” someone asked.

  “‘Cause he couldn’t hit a bull in de ass,” someone else teased.

  Herschel looked the crowd over. “I want to hire four stout men to carry these two trunks uphill to the Miner’s Bank.” He had one free chest and could barely move it.

  Volunteers stepped out, and he picked four. “We have to get the dead horse off the other trunk.”

  “Must be valuable stuff,” an onlooker said.

  “Yeah, real valuable.”

  “Stand aside. Stand aside,” two lawmen ordered, coming through the crowd. “What’s meaning of this?”

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker. The rest of the McCafferty gang just left. You just missed them.”

  Someone was pulling on his sleeve. Herschel turned to look down at a short wrinkled-faced Indian woman who motioned toward the dead horse. “You going to eat it?”

  “No.”

  “Can I butcher it?”

  “Sure,” Herschel said.

  “Only if you get all of it off the street, old woman,” the policeman said. “I don’t want no guts, bones, nothing left here.”

  The woman agreed, and several Indian men came forward and helped them turn the horse over. The trunks were soon undone from the packsaddle, and the men’s faces took on a shocked look over the weight of them.

  “What’s in them anyway?” the other lawman asked Herschel.

  “Spanish gold.”

  “Huh?”

  “Take them right up the hill,” Herschel said. “I’m putting them in the bank.”

  “Hold it. I’m writing you a summons for discharging a firearm in the city.”

&nbs
p; Herschel showed his small federal badge. “I’ll be at the Miner’s Bank if you want me.”

  The other patrolman nodded that it would be all right, and Herschel told the men bearing the trunks to proceed.

  Inside the high-ceiling lobby, a teller asked from his cage what they could do for Herschel and the man.

  “Have the president or the highest man here come out.” He turned to the men. “Set them down.”

  “Er, yes, sir,” said the teller.

  A tall man with a thick white mustache and an expensive suit came out of an office. “What may I do for you, sir?”

  “I have two trunks full of Spanish gold doubloons I wish you to hold for me until I can make arrangements to ship them back to Montana.” Anger and disappointment gnawed at his conscience as he waited for the man’s answer. The other two were getting away.

  “Have they been inventoried?” the man finally asked, waving the four men to bring the trunks in to his office.

  “Not since they came off the boat,” Herschel said.

  The man laughed. “My name is Bridges. Come into my office.”

  “U.S. Marshal Baker.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. Tell me how these trunks fell into your hands.”

  “I shot one of their packhorses down the hill as the outlaws were escaping from me.”

  “My heavens—”

  “Excuse me,” Herschel said, and paid the men from the street five dollars apiece and received their gratitude.

  “Call on us when you need us again,” the tallest one said as they left waving and talking about their generous pay.

  Herschel closed the office door after them and turned back to Bridges. “This is only one third of the treasure they stole. But this will let an old man live his life out in peace.”

  Bridges took off his coat and began unstrapping the first trunk. When he lifted the lid, he sucked in his breath, staring at the money. “My God, man, there is a fortune in this one.”

  Herschel nodded his head. “That’s why I’m in here and not down in that street where a half dozen Indian loafers are slaughtering that pony.”

  “Do you want it inventoried?”

  “Is it necessary? I want Wells Fargo to deliver it to Billings, Montana.”

  “I don’t blame you. That would be a long way to pack that much treasure. They will want it inventoried so no one can say that they lost any of it in transit, understand?”