Wulf's Tracks

by Dusty Richards

  They circled the pen twice in a long hard walk. Wulf never let him have enough rein to get his head down, and he set down good when Wulf stopped him. Then Wulf booted the sorrel in close to the roan and took a neck rope from Herschel. He wrapped it on his saddle horn and Herschel mounted the roan.

  They went around and around the pen with the roan squealing like a pig caught under a gate. But he soon learned that on such a short rope, all he could do was dance. After fifteen minutes of warming them up, the riders dismounted and loaded the packhorse.

  Ira shook his head. “You fellas make it look easy. Those are tough horses.”

  “That’s what we needed.” Herschel gave him a salute, and they were off toward the northern portion of Nebraska.

  Riding the hell out of them would sure improve the horses’ disposition. But Wulf was proud that they never bucked in the street. They rode through the midday traffic with all three horses walking on eggs, but they made it and soon were at the ferry. It was another experience that shocked the horses, but the men had them in close tow, and soon they were riding north again.

  “We handled these old ponies like we did the gang—short and tough,” Herschel said.

  “Only thing, these three spoiled ponies ain’t through with us yet,” Wulf said.

  “They sure ain’t deadheads anyway.” Both men agreed about that.

  A gray-headed woman at a crossroads store fed Herschel and Wulf supper about sundown. She served them chicken stew, and it had a great flavor. Both men were impressed and thanked her.

  “Be careful, young men. You have some fine-looking horses out there. There are so many horse thieves up here, you can’t keep a horse.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, we’ll watch out for them,” Herschel told her. They rode on, finding a place to camp beside a moon lake, a body of water with no outlet. The horses were hobbled and there were two dragging ropes. The idea was to have them close by in the morning.

  It took no coaxing to put either man to sleep. Wulf woke in the predawn and with no wood around, decided they’d gnaw on jerky with canteen water to wash it down. His head hurt, and most of the muscles in his body, but he promised himself he’d harden up in a few days. Herschel joined him, and they made their way north asking questions about the McCaffertys here and there.

  Most people wouldn’t say much about them. That was the way to live in such a wide-open country where there was no protection from men like the McCaffertys. Anyone talked too much might end up with a knock on the door and a bullet in their guts for their troubles.

  They found a freighter named Thompson in Alliance who knew the McCaffertys. The false-front buildings and saloons in big tents in the boom city going up were alive with opportunists. The lawmen met Thompson at the wagon yard, which smelled of fresh pine, where they boarded their horses and decided to go find some food.

  “Hold up, fellars,” the big burly man said. “You going to eat supper?”

  “Yes. Where is the best place?” Herschel asked him.

  “There’s a fat Mexican gal named Dora slings real hash down here a block. A little spicy, but you fellows look like you know spicy food.”

  He cut a big hocker out of his throat and spit it ten feet away. “This place up here is sure on fire, ain’t it?”

  “Booming, I’d say. Wulf and I are looking for some gents named McCafferty who have a place up north of here.”

  “Yeah, way north. They’re up above Chadron outside of Fort Robinson. They owe you money?”

  Herschel shook his head.

  “Well, watch yourself. They ain’t got a bad reputation ’cause they’re churchgoers.”

  “How hard will they be to find?”

  “They’ve got a place right off this road north of Chadron. Maybe two miles or so.”

  Herschel thanked the man, and the three of them ate the fat woman’s spicy Mexican food, seated on the ground beside the yellow canvas wall tent she used for her house. The food made Wulf homesick, and he wondered until he fell asleep that night how Dulchy was doing. Visions of Ranger and Calico only made his stomach turn over and over.

  A damn tough night. On the road, he was grateful for the meadowlarks and plovers running up the road ahead of them, a screaming red-tail hawk above, and a walleyed red horse underneath him that danced the first two miles on his toes.

  They camped that night at a wagon yard ranch run by two old bachelors. Wulf missed Dora’s tasty food from the night before. The bachelors’ boiled beef was tasteless and the potatoes could have been cooked an hour longer. Breakfast was oatmeal, stiff as it could be, with no sugar or milk. Their coffee was made from scorched barley and bitter as anything.

  Riding out from their place, Herschel laughed. “That fat Mexican gal could have cooked circles around them two.”

  Wulf agreed. “But you could look at them two and see what they cooked. Sideways, neither made a good shadow.”

  The roan must have thought laughing was a good time to buck. He put his head down between his knees, and Herschel had his work cut out for him getting the horse back down. He must have bucked for a quarter mile before Herschel jerked his head up.

  “Things sure got Western around here,” Wulf teased.

  “Sure ain’t any dull moments.”

  Chadron was made up of some log buildings with sod roofs. Corrals to hold cattle for the Indians on commodity day. Several loafing Indians wrapped in colorful blankets looked blank-eyed at their passing. The crowd was dressed in buckskin with wide-brimmed hats, and many had .50-caliber buffalo guns to lean on. They were sure tough-looking. Including the black buffalo soldiers who were stationed out at Fort Robinson and frequented the village, too.

  Several stringy-headed women in wash-worn rags that barely covered their bodies made shouts inviting the lawmen over for business. Several onlookers thought it funny, but Wulf and Herschel rode on by, ignoring them.

  “Watch for the ox yoke. Thompson said that’ll be their place,” Herschel reminded him.

  “Whew.” Wulf turned back in the saddle. “That was the worse town we’ve been so far.”

  “Tough place, all right.”

  “What if they ain’t home?” Wulf asked.

  “We’ll wait for them if it looks like they’re coming back. Remember, we may be riding right into a trap.”

  “I’ve had that feeling for three days.”

  They found the ox yoke on a crossbar overhead, sat their horses, and looked at a tall grassy hill with two wagon ruts that went around it to some unseen ranch. Wulf hoped they’d soon be done there. The shoot-out in the wagon yard had shown him how tough these law-breakers could be. When backed into a corner, these men would fight like badgers.

  And he wanted this encounter over—something gripped his gut—this would be the real test for him and Herschel.

  “Better unlimber your rifle,” Herschel said.

  Wulf nodded and reached down to jerk his .44/40 out of the scabbard. He levered a cartridge into the chamber and set the hammer on safety.

  “What do you reckon these horses will do when the shooting starts?”

  “Good question. Maybe break in two.” Herschel was looking around to be certain there wasn’t an ambusher on either side of them.

  They rode through a cut, and the McCaffertys’ home place squatted down before them a quarter mile away in a large basin. The sun danced on the moon lake beyond the homestead, and the strong south wind rippled it. Water and grass—what made this land so valuable to cattlemen, and the cattlemen were moving in quickly to take advantage.

  “Ride about thirty feet apart from me. Remember, there may be women here when you have to shoot.”

  Wulf nodded that he understood, and moved Red out in the knee-high brown stems. A slender woman in a dark dress came out on the porch, threw a bucket of water away, and then peered at them in shock.

  “Calvin, get out your ass here! We’ve got us some real company.”

  Herschel nodded at Wulf, who’d also heard her voice carry on the wind. The
next thing, a man appeared in his underwear with a rifle. Herschel took aim with his and fired the first round. Roan began to dance under him, but he checked the animal.

  “McCafferty, you’re under arrest.”

  The rifle in the man’s hand must have jammed. For a second, he fought with it. Then he and the woman fled inside.

  “Head to the corral for cover,” Herschel shouted. “He’s going to fight. I should have shot him.”

  The crack of pistol shots and gun smoke came from a window near the front door. Bent low in the saddle, Wulf made the corral and dismounted. He was pleased Herschel was right with him.

  Rifle in Wulf’s hand, he bellied down behind the rails, found a place to shoot it through, and took aim at the window. His first shot shattered glass and caused a scream. Herschel was running low to the left to get a shot from a different angle.

  Only the wind made a rushing sound. No sounds came from the house but the flap of some clothes on a line. Wolf was a good distance from the front door and the single window. If his rifle didn’t work—McCafferty wouldn’t hurt them with a pistol except by luck.

  “McCafferty, I’m a deputy U.S. marshal. Get your hands up and surrender,” Herschel ordered.

  “He can’t,” the woman shouted back. “He’s been hit.”

  “Then you drag him outside.”

  “I can’t. He’s too big.”

  “If this is a trick, you’re liable to be cut down in the cross fire.”

  “It’s no trick. No trick.”

  Wulf realized how hard his heart was pumping when he rose to his knees. His mind and sight concentrated on the low-roofed cabin and what happened next. He dried his right hand on his pants. Rifle cocked and ready, he advanced on the cabin with Herschel coming in from the left. This could be a trick or trap despite her denial. He didn’t trust her, making step after step across the bare ground with little or no cover.

  “You come outside,” Herschel ordered.

  Hair in her red face, swollen from crying, she shied away from Herschel. She wore a new dress. The garment looked awful fancy for housework—in her late twenties or early thirties, she had a hard look about her.

  “Stay right there,” Herschel ordered her, and left unsaid that Wulf should watch her.

  His pistol held by his face, he stepped inside.

  For a long moment after Herschel went in, Wulf held his breath—expecting shots. Looking at the anxious woman chewing on her knuckles, he wondered where the sons were at. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Lucille,” she replied.

  “Where are the others?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. He’s going to die.” Then she went back to sobbing and sniffling.

  “How is he?” Wulf asked from the doorway, watching her close.

  “He’ll live,” Herschel said.

  After looking around for the sight of anyone, Wulf said, “We’re coming in.” Then he turned to her. “You first.”

  The scent of her perfume made his empty stomach roil. No doubt McCafferty had found her in some whorehouse. Inside, the light was shadowy. He could see the man half propped up at the end of the bed, holding his bloody shoulder.

  “You have a buckboard?” Herschel asked her.

  She nodded.

  “Wulf, gather our horses and find the team. Lady, where are the trunks at?”

  “What trunks?”

  “Listen, you want him alive, you better show us where they are, ’cause we aren’t leaving here without them. No matter how bad he’s bleeding.”

  She shook her head in disgust. “I told him. I told him. They’d never give up trying to get them back. It was too much money. No, he wouldn’t listen.”

  Then she peeled back a worn hook rug and exposed the trapdoor in the floor. Then she used the back of her hand against her running nose. “It’s down there. The damn bloody stuff.”

  Herschel opened the door and peered down into the cellar. Satisfied, he gave Wulf a nod that the trunks were down there.

  “Where are his two sons?” Herschel asked her.

  “You took Auggie to jail—”

  Wulf stopped in the doorway to listen. Obviously, the youngest one had not returned. Strange. Had he died? Maybe he’d stayed with those stage robbers that Herschel told him about who’d helped him escape.

  “Grayson?”

  She curled her lip. “Whoring it up in Deadwood, I guess.”

  Wulf left on the run to get the horses lined up. That would require some time. But they’d be headed home soon. Or to Montana anyway. Busy catching their horses in the balmy spring weather, he wondered what Dulchy was doing. In her heavy starched blue and white dress, she’d be walking back to her aunt’s house. He could imagine the cloth rustling as she strolled home after work.

  When the treasure was loaded at last on the hitched buckboard, Herschel called Wulf aside for a two-man conference.

  “That bunch of loafers at Chadron ever caught wind of how much gold we have, we’d never make it back. Secondly, I don’t trust Lucille. With this money gone, this homestead is going to be tough living again.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “That we keep our eyes and ears wide open till we can get to Alliance. We can bank it there and let Wells Fargo worry about it from there on.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Three, four days.”

  “You think Auggie stayed with the stage robbers?”

  “Either that or took off for parts unknown. He wasn’t the most willing outlaw.”

  Wulf squatted on his heels and glanced over at his cousin. “Grayson?”

  “He’s probably where she said he was, or some other location until he runs out of money.”

  “What do we need to do about him?”

  “There’s a stage out of Cheyenne for Deadwood. We’re probably three days’ hard ride from there.”

  “But you need me now.”

  “I will need you. We’ll get him. We’ve got the largest share of the gold back. This bunch didn’t make a dent in Buffalo’s money. What’s on your mind?”

  “Whatever is going on in Texas about my life, I guess.”

  “I bet it is. Let’s get started south. There may be some news when we get back.”

  Wulf shook his head, feeling empty inside. “I sure hope so.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  HALFWAY to Chadron, Herschel had a brainstorm. Fort Robinson. Why hadn’t he thought about that sooner? They had security, a doctor, and no doubt prison holding facilities for McCafferty. His deputy marshal badge would come in handy. He short-loped his roan horse up to the buckboard that Wulf was driving, sitting beside “Mrs. McCafferty” on the spring seat. Herschel also led the packhorse and sorrel.

  “Change in plans. We’re going to Fort Robinson. They’ve got a doctor there and security.”

  “Sounds good,” Wulf said, and smiled back at him.

  It was past midnight when Herschel walked in to speak to the officer in charge in the red brick building in the fort.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Deputy U.S. Marshal Herschel Baker with a prisoner and also much robbery loot.”

  “What will you be needing, sir?”

  “A doc for the prisoner. A room for his wife, and a safe place to put the money he stole. We have—my deputy and I will have several horses to put up.”

  “How much money?”

  “More money than I can count. It is in four heavy trunks.”

  “Our safe is not that large.” The lieutenant shook his head.

  “Lock it up in a jail cell then.”

  “Good idea. What will you do with it?”

  “Wells Fargo can haul it to Billings, Montana.”

  “We can have that taken care of. Where is the man needs the medical attention?”

  “Out in the buckboard.”

  “Sergeant Tatum, get a detail to take the man to the brig. Lock those—” He looked to Herschel for a description.

 
“There are four very heavy trunks on the buckboard,” Herschel said.

  “They need to be placed in a cell and put under armed guard.”

  “Yes, sah.” The large black noncom nodded to Herschel. “You’s going along, sah?”

  “Right behind you.”

  “Sergeant, these men probably have not eaten in some time.”

  “I’ll see that they are fed, sir, and their horses put up. There are rooms ready at the visitor quarters for them and the missus.”

  “I hope your stay at Fort Robinson is a good one, sir,” the lieutenant said to Herschel.

  Later, after a breakfast assembled by a sleepy but congenial black cook, they were shown to individual guest rooms when Sergeant Tatum learned that the lady was not Herschel’s wife.

  The last thing Herschel told Wulf was they’d head for Deadwood from there. Under the covers with the moonlight filtering in the window, he wondered what Deadwood would be like.

  He frowned when someone tried the door. Sitting up in bed with his six-gun in his fist, he faced Lucille McCafferty in a white gown. She held a finger to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry to bother you—Wulf. But you must know that fortune belongs to an old buffalo hunter. He doesn’t need it. If you and I and Herschel could make a fair division of it, who would know?” She stood beside the bed. The silk gown was open down the middle.

  “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t think Herschel’s interested in splitting it.”

  She started to put her knee on the edge of the mattress.

  “That’s far enough. I’m not interested in you or splitting the loot.” He came off the bed and began to herd her out of the room.

  “How do you know?” she asked in a smoky voice.

  He pointed at the open door. “Get out! Get out!”

  “You don’t have to be so loud and hateful.”

  “Yes, I do.” He bolted the door shut behind her and sagged against the wall. Dulchy, you’ll never know the hell I’ve been through for you. It took him several minutes to get composed and back to bed.

  In the morning, they took their meal with some officers. Herschel told them Buffalo Malone’s treasure story and about chasing after the McCaffertys.