Wulf's Tracks by Dusty Richards

Author:Dusty Richards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

NINETEEN

THE Red River ferryman cranked Wulf and his horses across the tree-choked stream. A large black man with thick arms worked the reel. “Better leave you whiskey for me.”

Wulf laughed loud enough to be heard back at Fort Worth.

“Dem U.S. marshals from Fort Smith will sure enough fine you for bringing it in the Indian Territory.”

“I don’t drink,” Wulf said.

“They’s might plant some on you’s and then arrest you. I’s never said they was all honest.”

“I’ll watch for that.”

“Good thing not to drink the devil’s brew, but you can read their threat going up de bank. You a smart man and can read. Lots of dem boys goes up there past it can’t read shit. I likes to warn them—no spirits beyond this dock.”

Wulf missed his friends at home a lot as he crossed into the Indian Territory and headed northwest for Kansas.

The trip across Texas had been uneventful, aside from his discovery of what Armstrong had done to his horse—that worthless outfit. Again, he was glad no one had shown their faces when he rode by. What had they done to Ranger? No telling. Then, as he rode up the steep embankment onto the Indian Territory, he wished he’d’ve found Ranger, too. The situation with his animals grated on his conscience. As he rode by the sign, he glanced at the rules about no spirits in the territory.

He had been teaching his horses to come when he whistled sharply. Rewarding them with sugar or grain had worked well. His first night on the prairie in the Indian Territory was marked by a thunderstorm that blew up out of the west in a great curtain cloud that flashed and roared like an insane thing. He’d seen some storms, but this beat any he could recall at home. Maybe because there was so much to see of the storm coming at him—like a sea washing in.

His boots still soggy, the next day he headed north, scattering killdeer and bobwhite quail in his advance. Meadowlarks sang to him and red-tail hawks screamed at his invasion of their sanctuary. He passed scattered small farms, and the world he rode through was wide with few people. Some thickets of wild plums had already bloomed, and several wildflowers like Indian paintbrush had already broken out as he rode on north.

Wrapped in their filthy blankets, two Indians on horseback stopped him. “You got some gawdamn whiskey?” the older one asked.

The other one rode over and began looking at his panniers like he was going to take them away.

“You two want to become good Indians?” Wulf asked, his anger growing by the minute.

“We plenty damn good Indians,” the one close to him said, beating his chest with his fist.

Wulf’s eyes narrowed at the man. “No, I mean good Indians.”

“What you mean?”

“If you don’t get the hell away from me and my horses, I’m going to make real good Indians out of you. Dead ones.”

When he drew his .45, they both looked shocked, turned their mounts away, and rode off beating their skinny horses to go faster.

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