Wulf's Tracks Read online

  HERSCHEL and Cob headed south to catch the main road out of Buffalo, Wyoming, that went to Spearfish. He spent the night in a bunk in a Buffalo wagon yard, lying on his side half dressed against the cold room’s lack of heat and going over all he’d done. Before he left Sheridan, he’d wired Art the names of the robbers and their possible destinations, and told him to tell Marsha where he was going so she’d understand. Being a sheriff’s wife wasn’t always the greatest thing in the world—but she would understand. At last, he fell asleep.

  In the cold dawn, he dressed, saddled Cob, watered him, and then rode him to the only café with lights on. Inside were several teamsters and men in fur coats who looked like trappers.

  “What have you got for breakfast?” Herschel asked the waiter.

  “No eggs. They froze. Ham, fried potatoes, biscuits and butter, and coffee.”

  “Sounds good.” He knew this would be his last meal until night at the Powder River crossing.

  “Where you headed, Tex?” A big man sat down uninvited across from him, wearing a buffalo coat and wide-brimmed hat. “I could tell where ya come from. It’s that Southern drawl.”

  Herschel looked hard across the table at the man. “Where I come from, you don’t ask a man where he comes and goes. That’s his own damn business.”

  “Kinda tough, ain’t you?”

  “I ain’t kinda. Now get the hell out of here before I gut-shoot you under this table.”

  The man’s blue eyes flew open. He fell over in the chair getting up, and held both his hands out.

  Several men around the room laughed as he ran out the front door.

  “What did you tell him to make him move like that?” one man asked.

  The waitress brought Herschel’s coffee. “Good riddance,” she said. “He thinks he’s some kinda hard case.”

  When she was gone, Herschel answered the man’s question. “I told him to go buy a pine box. He was fixing to need it.”

  More laughs.

  After his big breakfast, the first spears of sunshine came over the eastern sky as he rode out of Buffalo. It was a land of low-growing sagebrush that gained altitude as the road wound eastward. Stark cottonwoods lined a few watercourses. There were plenty of antelope and mule deer and long-eared jackrabbits that went bounding away at his approach. He short-loped Cob, passing a few freight wagons going west, and at last went over the top in late afternoon and came off the mountain to the Powder River crossing. A wooden bridge spanned the sluggish-looking water between mostly frozen banks on each side.

  Frazier’s Wagon Yard offered food and lodging and stabling. He stopped there since the next stopover was another day’s ride east. A stable man took Cob and promised to feed him a double measure of grain. Herschel gave him a dime tip. That would buy a schooner of beer at most places. The food was set up in the style of stage coach stopovers, with benches beside a long table.

  A mammoth fat woman came out of the kitchen and looked across the room at him. “Antelope stew and corn bread. You want some?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pick you out a place. I’ll bring coffee, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  She squeezed back through the doorway into the kitchen like a huge bear going through a juniper thicket. The room was cold, but he removed his gloves and opened his heavy coat. He could see his breath when he talked. Must be a coal shortage. East of there, coal was lying on the ground for picking up.

  She brought his food on a tray as she lumbered her way across the room toward him.

  He thanked her. She must have wanted to talk or was out of breath. Instead of going back to the kitchen, she plopped down beside him on the bench, looking the other way.

  “This is a gawdamn isolated place, mister.”

  He agreed, warming his fingers by curling them around the tin cup of coffee. The coffee wouldn’t be too warm for long.

  “When I come out here, they said this was the booming place in Wyoming. If this is booming, I’d hate to see the rest.”

  “When does the stage come through here?” he asked to make small talk. Her perfume and unwashed body odor filled his nose. She stank.

  “Around seven, if he don’t get held up or break down. Broke down last week. They had to go get the passengers in a buckboard. Like to froze ’em to death.”

  “Three men come though here with packhorses a few days ago?”

  “Yeah, yeah. A tough fella with his sons. I knew the sumbitch from a place where I once worked north of Ogallala.”

  A hog ranch, he figured. Probably in her final days as a soiled dove. Ogallala was where all the outcasts of prostitution entertained fort soldiers mostly, black or white. It was the lowest place to work their trade and the best place to catch venereal disease he knew about. What he remembered about those kinds of places was that many of the women had lost their minds from smoking Chinese pipes or from disease.

  “Tally McCafferty?”

  “Yeah. The vigilantes or Wells Fargo hung them Whitten brothers he rode with over at South Platte.”

  “Wells Fargo hung them?”

  “Listen, I knowed three other fellas who were planning to hold up a Wells Fargo shipment when they could find out when it was going east. They got loose-tongued one night in a saloon, and next day they found ’em facedown in a sand pile along the Platte. All shot in the back of the head.

  “I couldn’t ever figured why Tally never got the same medicine.”

  “A woman told me he went straight for a while. When was he here?”

  “Oh, two days ago or so. I’d’ve gone straight, too, if I thought they’d hang me. Why do you want him?”

  “He robbed a lot of money in my county in Montana.”

  “I figured you for a bloodhound. I know men. Well, when you catch him, tell him Dorrie said hi.” Then she labored to her feet and shook her many chins. “He’s just some old mean sumbitch is all.”

  “Thanks,” Herschel said after her. Her antelope stew was stringy and flat-tasting, with potatoes and turnips as filler. But it did fill him up.

  The westbound stage rolled in and five passengers came inside all bundled up. Dorrie began handing out food at the kitchen door. There was lots of small talk. The driver came in the door last with a shotgun guard. Herschel took his coffee cup and cornered the man.

  “Excuse me, I’m sheriff in Yellowstone County. My name’s Herschel Baker. Coming this way, did you pass three men with three paint packhorses?”

  “Around Sundance,” the guard said to the driver.

  “We seen them close to there. They had five packhorses but, yes, three were paints.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They robbed a lot of money in my county.”

  The driver looked over at him. “You’re one helluva lawman tracking them this far.”

  “Oh,” Herschel said, “I’m not giving up on them if they ride to hell and back.”

  THIRTEEN

  ANDY accompanied Wulf the next morning, and they put a running W hitch on the black horse and gently laid him down on the tarp, which they had spread over the ground. Then, with soft cotton ropes, Wulf four-footed him. Kentucky fought his restrains for a while, tossing his head and acting fierce. But Wulf sat on his rump like it was a seat and patted him, ignoring his fits. He worked over every inch of the horse, sitting on his shoulders and patting him, rubbing everywhere until Kentucky lay there and took it—then Wulf went back over him again. Soon, the black horse surrendered, and then Wulf trimmed his hooves. Before he left Texas, he would shoe him, but that would be left for another day.

  His hooves had been long neglected because of his disposition, and needed much shaping. It wasn’t until Dulchy came and spoke to Wulf over the high wall that he realized it was time to water the horse and reward him.

  Matters and his wife had gone to see a relative, and he’d not noticed lunchtime go by, he was so busy working on his prone horse. When he untied him, Kentucky came to his feet. No longer the crazy s
tall kicker, the horse was now nickering to Wulf.

  “I’ll still have to water and feed him,” he warned Dulchy.

  “Go do it. The Dutch pastries will wait.”

  Not for long, he hoped, realizing how hungry he was.

  “Where are Mr. Matters and his wife today?” Dulchy asked.

  “Went to see a relative. They will be back tomorrow.”

  “I wondered where he was at. He really enjoys watching you work.”

  “Yes. You hear any threats toward me today?”

  “No, why?”

  “My stepfather told someone in the saloon yesterday that he was stopping me from leaving on this horse. I came by to talk to Matters. He’s now saying I am training it for him.”

  “Will that stop your stepfather?”

  Wulf led the way, and the big horse followed him to the stall. “No, I don’t think so, but at least we stopped that attack.”

  After watering Kentucky and feeding him an armful of hay, Wulf closed the stall door and bolted it. “Now, let’s go eat that pastry.”

  What was wrong? They stood in the dark hallway face-to-face. Oh, he knew—and swept Dulchy up in his arms and kissed her. “Sorry I skipped lunch today.”

  She laughed and squeezed his arm. “See? You don’t take care of yourself.”

  They left the barn, skipping hand in hand for her aunt’s house. After the wonderful pastries, he left for Andy’s place, feeling he was doing all he could to fight off Hughes’s efforts against him. Wulf went to wondering what would happen next.

  The following morning during breakfast at Andy’s house, Paulo, the Matters’ handyman, came to the back door with his hat in hand. “Señor Wulf. Senor Wulf. I found the horse’s stall open this morning. Someone had released him or stolen him, Señor.”

  “Easy, Paulo,” Wulf said, taking him inside the lamplit kitchen.

  “How could that happen?” Andy stood up, frowning at them. “Come in, Paulo. Myrna, get him some coffee.”

  “No, no, I only come to tell you that his stall it is empty when I get to work.”

  “What did Ule say?” Andy asked.

  “He is still not home, Senor. Senor Matters went to see his wife’s cousin.”

  “I see.”

  Wulf paced the kitchen. “There is only one person I can suspect is behind all this—Kent Hughes.”

  “What do you mean?” Myrna asked.

  “He couldn’t claim the horse, so he stole him or had someone else steal him.”

  “We can’t prove that right now,” Andy said as Myrna served Paulo a cup of coffee. She also coaxed Wulf to sit down at the table.

  “Wulf, sit down,” she said. “Eat your breakfast. I believe you’ll need all the energy you can find today.”

  “It’ll be daylight in thirty minutes,” Andy said, emphasizing his words with his fork. “Wulf, you go up there and look for his tracks. I’ll go find Marshal Volker.”

  “I know I barred the gate last night,” Wulf said.

  “Señor, it was wide open this morning.”

  Wulf nodded. His stomach felt like a hard ball. He’d find that black horse or die trying. Damn the thieves anyway.

  After breakfast, he hurried over to the Matters house, and in the shadowy early light saw the stall door gaping open. He went outside and studied the ground. There were tracks of other shod horses and Kentucky’s freshly cut-down hooves. They went out the driveway and he found their trail. The thieves had led Kentucky out of there and ridden north.

  Marshal Volker and Andy joined him. They agreed the horse had been taken and led away.

  “What do we do now?” Wulf asked.

  “I can send word to other law authorities,” the marshal said. “The only deputies the sheriff has couldn’t track themselves across an anthill.”

  “Andy, where can I borrow a horse?” Wulf asked.

  “Jerome Kane. He’s an old friend of your father and has several. I’m sure he’d loan you one.”

  “I’m going up there and borrow one. Then I’ll go home and put on real clothes and go find whoever took them.”

  “They could be real hard cases, stealing a man’s horse out of his barn,” Volker said.

  Wulf nodded. He had his father’s .45. He’d wear it. He’d have to go by and leave word for Dulchy. Maybe Myrna would do that for him. Wasted minutes meant more miles and more distance between him and those rustlers.

  Jerome Kane came to the door tousle-headed and barely awake when Wulf knocked on his door. “What you need, Wulf?”

  “To borrow a saddle horse. Someone stole Mr. Matters’s black horse last night and I’m going to try to track them down.”

  “Stole him? Why, lordy, that wild thing may eat them before they’re done with him. You been training him?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s probably why they could steal him.”

  “Let me pull on my boots. There’s a gray horse I call Goose that’s long-winded. He’d be the best one. Just don’t go getting yourself kilt over this horse. They could be tough rannies that stole him.”

  When Kane’s boots were on, they went to the corral. Wulf saw the gray. A fine long-backed horse.

  “What’s he worth?” Wulf asked when Jerome opened the gate.

  “Thought I was loaning him to you.” He took a reata off the fence and shook out a loop.

  “You are, but if something happens, I’ll pay you for him.”

  “Son, as much hell as you’ve had with that worthless Hughes, I’d scratch that debt off my books.”

  Wulf wasn’t going to argue. “Thanks. Someday I’ll repay you.”

  “You can come up here and train horses for me any time.”

  He threw the loop over the gray’s neck. “Get that bridle on the fence, you can use it. I got an old saddle—”

  “No, sir. I have Dad’s good one.”

  “Fine. You bring it?”

  “No. But I can ride bareback.”

  “You better grab you a hank of mane. Goose ain’t been rode in a spell and he might buck.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Goose did crow-hop several times going away from Jerome’s lot. Wulf could hear Jerome’s rusty voice. “I warned you. I warned you.”

  But the pony soon straightened out, and Wulf waved at Jerome as he short-loped for Andy’s. Back at the house, he put on the too big pants and shirt. Hooking up the suspenders, he tied on the silk kerchief, then the vest. Seated on the cot, he brushed off his soles one at a time, pulled on socks, and then fought on his father’s boots. Standing up in them, he felt tilted forward on the high heels. They’d take some getting used to. Then he strapped on the holster and gun, and picked up the heavy Stetson hat and placed it on his head.

  “My, you look very nice,” Myrna said when he went in to the kitchen.

  “I need another favor.”

  “What’s that?” She dried her hands on a dish towel.

  “Go by and tell Dulchy for me what I had to do.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’ll understand. I’ll change and go do that.”

  “Thanks. I used to have a mother. I guess you’re it now. Thanks, Myrna.”

  “Oh, your mother will return to her senses in time.”

  He never answered her about that. “I need to go saddle the horse Jerome loaned me and go now.”

  “Sorry for the flour sack, but here’s some biscuits, some cookies, and some hard-boiled eggs. You be careful.”

  “I will. And thanks.”

  Those thieves had a good head start. When Goose was saddled, Wulf tied on his bedroll with his canvas coat inside. At last, he threw his leg over, adjusted the Colt on his hip, and waved to Myrna. When he went by the Matters place to pick up the tracks, he noticed their buggy was not back yet. Matters would be upset when he returned and learned the black had been stolen.

  At the first crossroads store that Wulf stopped at, a balding man in an apron was out sweeping the porch. He looked up and smiled at Wulf.

  “Morning, mister. I’m looking for
two men leading a black horse.”

  “I seed ’em. Rode by here about sunup. Watered over there at that trough. Looked around like they had an itch and rode off.”

  “Had an itch?” Wulf frowned at the man.

  “I meant, they acted like their necks itched thinking about a hemp rope around them.”

  “Can you describe them?”

  “One was tall and one was short. The short one had a bob haircut like a woman. He weren’t no woman. Tall one had a big mustache. Kinda bent over like a lot of tall folks get trying hear what the rest of us are talking about.”

  “Know their names?”

  “Short one called the tall one Kinney when they was over there. That black horse was upset. He was wet with sweat and you could tell they didn’t trust him.”

  “That’s my horse and I was breaking him.”

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “Nineteen,” he lied.

  “Well, don’t go and get yourself killed over a damn horse.”

  “I am obliged.” Wulf led Goose across the street and watered him at the tank. When the horse was through drinking, he loped him on north. They’d probably make Brady by dark. Best place to sell a stolen horse was Fort Worth. It was a ways on northeast, but they were started in that direction anyhow. This part of the hill country was all new to him.

  Next, he stopped a man on the road driving a buggy. He was bearded and somber looking as he sat in the rig.

  “Good day, sir. I’m looking for two horse thieves leading my black horse. You pass them on this road?”

  “They’re up the road a ways. Saw them—” He used his hand to shade his eyes and checked the sun time. “Maybe two or three hours ago.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Wulf tipped his hat to the man.

  “No problem. I hope you catch ’em.”

  “I will, sir.”

  By late afternoon, he was in Brady. A check of the liveries and wagon yard brought no sign of the two men or of Kentucky. The tracks in the dust had become too hard to follow. He had to rely on visual sightings.

  An old man, seated on a porch stoop whittling, looked up when Wulf pushed Goose in closer.

  “You ain’t seen two fellas leading a black horse through town, have you?”