Wulf's Tracks Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  BRACING A HORSE THIEF

  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 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.

  PRAISE FOR The Sundown Chaser ...

  “[Richards] has a definite flair for details that put the reader right into the action.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  ... AND Montana Revenge

  “Another well-told story by Spur Award-winner Dusty Richards ... You won’t want to miss this one.”

  —Roundup Magazine

  Berkley titles by Dusty Richards

  THE HORSE CREEK INCIDENT

  MONTANA REVENGE

  THE SUNDOWN CHASER

  WULF’S TRACKS

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,

  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  WULF’S TRACKS

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / March 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Dusty Richards.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without

  permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the

  author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18578-0

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  I want to dedicate this book to some great guys who I called my friends and who have gone on to make camp on that big ranch in the sky. They’ll be there waiting with the coffeepot on and enough split wood for three roundups. PRCA rodeo announcer and Oklahoma politician Clem McSpadden—words won’t describe his melodious voice and all he did for cowboys starting with the National Finals Rodeo; Ben Glover, a rancher, adviser, and dear friend; John Cleary, a New Yawk lawyer, trout fisherman, and with his New England accent a dandy to have in camp—he’d remind us of Teddy Roosevelt. And Guy Terry, another cattleman, who, calmer than any person on earth, could put the huge Rodeo of the Ozarks parades in the street every July 1 and 4 as well as keep things organized. Amigos, we’re sure going to miss each one of you.

  Dusty Richards www.dustyrichards.com

  PROLOGUE

  ANDY Carter busied himself repairing a weld on the Number Seven Oliver turning plow. The coal smoke from his forge made a thin fog in his blacksmith shop. But he ignored it as he hammered on the heated steel. Jacob Heldebrande would be back in half an hour or less, demanding his repaired farm implement be ready.

  Andy looked up in time to see Wulf Baker ride past aboard his paint stallion with his stock dog Ranger seated on the saddle right behind him. Wulf was a real hard worker and a heckuva animal trainer. The real shame of the whole business was that his widowed mother, Jenny Baker, had gone and married Kent Hughes. No way that Hughes and Wulf Baker would ever get along on that place of hers. It wasn’t big enough.

  Andy considered Hughes a windy braggart, and a bully when he wanted to be. Especially with someone lesser than him. There—Andy stepped back from his work. That weld looked good enough to hold for that old kraut-head anyway. He set the walking plow on the floor, and went out the open front doors of his shop to get a breath of fresh air.

  It was nice warm early March morning, and he nodded to a passing farmer in a wagon. They could use some rain, but when did it ever rain enough in the hill country of Texas? A young boy, out of breath, ran up and asked him if he could tack up a bill on his door.

  “Sure. Here let me read it.” He took a copy and scanned the artwork and words. Colonel Stacy Armstrong, the world’s greatest animal trainer, would be in Mason, Texas, Saturday March 10. For a ten dollar-entry fee, he would match one of his world-famous Border collies against anyone’s best stock dog. Any local entry that could beat one of his dogs in the show ring competition would be a
warded fifty dollars. Admission twenty-five cents, families one dollar, at the Mason, Texas, city ballpark.

  Where had Wulf gone? Why, his Ranger dog could do wonders gathering stock, cattle, pigs, sheep, or goats. Those two needed to be entered in that competition.

  Andy hung up his apron on the door and turned around the wooden sign that read, “I will be right back.”

  Then he headed up the crowded Main Street, filled with buggies, wagons, and people, to find Wulf. It was Saturday, and everyone was in town shopping or gossiping. Halfway down the block, he heard a woman screaming. Alarmed by her shouts, he began to run left and right through the boardwalk traffic to get close enough to see what was happening.

  “Mad dog! Mad dog!” someone shouted.

  He searched around for a weapon as he hurried on in case he needed to put a stop to such a beast. Around the corner, he caught sight of a frightened mother holding a baby and backing away from the advancing brindle cur. Raging mad, the cur showed all the symptoms of hydrophobia. His open mouth was running with saliva foaming off his teeth, tongue, and lips. He was stalking the woman stiff legged—ready to lunge at her any second.

  “Here,” someone said. “Give me your gun.”

  Blocked by the retreating people himself, Andy watched Wulf coming on the run through the onlookers, jerking a revolver out of a man’s holster as he raced through the seemingly helpless crowd. Wulf walked boldly past the mother. The cur made a stiff-legged lunge for him, but the six-gun in Wulf’s fist roared smoke and fire. In lightning fashion, Wulf put three quick bullets in the cur’s diseased brain. Down on his side, the dog was still churning his legs in the dirt, and he was issuing guttural sounds from his throat as he died.

  “Don’t touch him,” the marshal ordered when he arrived out of breath.

  “Ain’t no one that dumb,” Wulf said, emptying the spent shells out of the man’s weapon into his palm.

  “Thanks for the use of it.” He handed the handgun and the empty casings back to the owner with a nod.

  “You saved my wife and baby’s life,” a flush-faced young man in a business suit said, joining him out of breath. “How can I repay you?”

  Wulf shrugged the notion off. “Hell, anyone here would have done the same thing.”

  “No. They didn’t. They were all too shocked. No one moved to save her but you.”

  “Mister, I’m glad she and her baby are fine. That’s enough.”

  “Wulf, the man wants to pay you,” Marshal Volker said.

  “He don’t owe me nothing.” He turned to the woman. “What’s that baby’s name?”

  “Christian. He’s two months old.”

  “Mighty fine-looking baby. Well, you two are all right now. I better tend to some business I came after.”

  “If I can ever do anything for you, my name is Fiest. Robert Fiest. I’m going to practice law here. My wife’s name is Effie.”

  “Well, Mr. Fiest, I’m sorry about this happening. We usually treat folks better than this when they first get to town.”

  “May we buy you lunch?”

  “No, thank you. I see my good friend Andy Carter over there. I better go speak to him. He’s the blacksmith here and can fix anything broken if you ever need help in that line.”

  “Thanks again,” they both said.

  Wulf waved good-bye with his small felt hat to the three of them. Then he hurried over to where Andy stood at the edge of the street.

  “First excitement we’ve had in Mason in a month,” Andy teased him, folding his muscled arms over his chest and appraising his friend. The boy was close to six feet tall.

  “You doing all right?” Wulf asked, looking around and acknowledging some people going by.

  “I’m fine. How is it going for you out at the ranch?”

  Wulf shrugged, and then he slapped on his hat. “Aw, Andy, I’m going to have to leave there pretty soon. There’s no way that I’m ever going to get along with him.”

  “You know you can always come stay with Myrna and me.”

  “No, Andy. If I leave out there, I’d have to get clear out of the country to avoid him.” Wearily, he dropped his chin, took off his hat, and beat his leg with it.

  “I’m sorry it’s turned out so bad. Hey, before you leave, did you see those posters they’re putting up today?”

  “That world-famous dog trainer?”

  “Yeah. Why, Ranger could win that hands down.”

  “No way. They’ve got sheep that they’ve trained to work for their dogs. They’ll panic when another dog comes in that ring.”

  “What if we challenge them to a wild goat-herding contest?”

  “Why, Andy, I ain’t got any money to bet on anything.”

  “Let me handle that. Would you try to beat them if I had it set up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Don’t leave home yet.”

  Andy watched the smile on Wulf’s face as the barefoot boy in his wash-faded overalls and a short-sleeved shirt bounded up on the well-muscled stud Calico. The horse’s hide looked like it was painted on in three colors, a mostly red roan pattern. The animal came from Comanche breeding and showed all the blood.

  Wulf gave a sharp whistle, and his yellow and white collie Ranger leaped up and took his place seated behind his master. Andy shook his head in amazement. Why, that boy was as good at training animals as anyone he knew. Then Andy headed back to work. Lots of good horses were killed by the army in the subduing of the Plains Indians. But the most wasteful was the slaughter of the Comanche horse bloodlines. Those red devils might have done lots of bad things, but their horse breeding programs were head and shoulders above any white man’s efforts. Andy felt certain that Calico came from those bloodlines.

  Better forget about horses and get back to his forge. Besides, he still needed to round up some betting money for this stock dog competition. That conceited Colonel might just meet his Waterloo right here in the hick town of Mason. He smiled to himself. Win or lose, it would be fun challenging that so-called world-renowned dude, and even better to beat him at his own game.

  Hell’s bells, there was that crotchety old Heldebrande out in front of his shop wearing out the dirt walking back and forth.

  ONE

  THE sunset bled all over the hills. Spring was ready to start. Wulf had even seen a few peach blossoms while coming back from Mason. Riding up Cherry Creek, he’d passed several oat fields with the short blades waving in the wind. His father would have said the oats had broken their winter dormancy. Up the lane he trotted, the powerful stallion between his knees and Ranger at his back.

  Dread balled up in his stomach at what lay ahead. He wasn’t going home. He was riding into a newfound hell, now the domain of his stepfather, Kent Hughes. The Three Crosses Ranch was no longer the Baker ranch. Not since his mother had married Kent Hughes six months ago. The ranch that spread out before him had became his stepfather’s property—lock, stock, and bank account.

  What confrontation would they have next, him and Hughes? The way the red-faced braggart was taking over everything stuck like a sand bur in Wulf’s craw. But a seventeen-year-old had no rights. No say-so about anything. Hughes had told him so, and it seemed true.

  At the corral, Ranger bailed off and Wulf slipped from his horse’s back. Calico gave a deep snort and Wulf patted him on the neck. “Easy, buddy, there’s hay waiting.”

  His horse turned into the pen, and Wulf closed the gate, watching him roll in the dust.

  “When do you plan to have that damn pinto castrated?” Hughes asked, swaggering over to join him.

  Taken aback by his stepfather’s words, he blinked at the man in disbelief. Hughes stood with his Stetson cocked on the back of head. “I don’t want that gawdamn Injun nag breeding any of my mares.”

  “Then leave them over on the H Bar S.”

  Hughes’s eyes narrowed and that ugly look swept over his face. “I don’t like your mouth, boy.”

  “That goes two ways. Calico is my horse. He’s—hell, I�
�m not explaining it all over again. You lay one hand on him and you’ll answer to me.”

  “Listen, as long as you put your bare feet under my table, you’ll take orders from me.”

  “Stay, Ranger,” Wulf ordered before he ducked under Hughes’s swing. Wulf moved fast enough to snatch up a singletree and raise it up to meet his stepfather’s head-on charge at him. “Now things are a little more even. Come on. We’ll see who whips who tonight.”

  “Stop! Stop!” his mother screamed, running down from the house. “Can’t you two even get along for ten minutes without fighting?”

  “Stay out of this,” Hughes said sharply as the two men circled each other. “Your son needs a lesson in manners toward his elders.”

  “Your husband needs some sense beat into his head,” said Wulf.

  Hughes made a charge, and Wulf used the singletree as a club, battering the arm Hughes stuck up in defense. The blow dropped Hughes to his knees, and Wulf struck him again with both of his hands on the singletree. This time, he hit him hard across the shoulder.

  With sharp cry of pain, Hughes went facedown, spilling his fancy hat in the dust.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” his mother protested before Wulf could hit Hughes again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’ll kill him, Wulf.” She pushed him away with both hands, looking at the downed Hughes with concern.

  “You hear me, Hughes?” Wulf gripped the singletree in both his hands like a bat and tried to see past her. No way he wanted to hurt her, but that same restraint did not apply to her husband. “You hear me, Hughes? I ain’t taking another beating. I’m not taking a whipping from you ever again.”

  “Gawdamn you, boy.” Hughes was on his feet at last. He jerked Wulf’s mother aside and came for Wulf again. “I’ll ki—”