Charles West - Day of the Wolf

It was early afternoon when Wolf reached the site of Mace’s camp on the North Platte, suggesting to him that maybe he was gradually closing the distance between himself and his prey. Taggart’s horses were tiring. Wolf was confident he would soon be forced to stop long enough to give them a good rest. Since he had bypassed Fort Fetterman, Wolf speculated that Taggart might be heading for old Platte Bridge Station, now called Fort Casper, although it was no longer an army post. Eight or nine years ago the army had pulled out of Fort Casper and sent the troops to Fort Fetterman. His Crow mentor, Big Knife, had told him that a man named Guinard had built a bridge across the river and a trading post on the spot many years before the army had established a post there. Wolf knew that there was a trading post still there, although now run by a man named Clem Russell. He had never done business with Russell, primarily because it had never been convenient, but he also had a natural tendency to avoid the trading post because it had a reputation for being a favorite hiding-out place for outlaws. It made sense that a man like Mace Taggart would be heading there. Since it was still early in the afternoon, he continued on to make camp within ten miles of Fort Casper. Looking back over the way he had come, he could see no sign of the two extra horses. It appeared that they had finally decided to accept their freedom. His packhorse would have no trouble living off the prairie grass. It was used to it. Ned’s packhorse might take some time adjusting to the diet.

Boyd Dawson was having a drink of whiskey with Clem Russell when Mace Taggart rode down from the ridge to the log trading post perched on the edge of the bluffs. In a natural reflexive action, Boyd jumped to his feet and pulled his pistol from his belt, almost upsetting his whiskey in the process. “Who the hell is that?” he demanded, as if Clem would know. He hurried up to stand just inside the door where he could get a good look at the man approaching on horseback. “Well I’ll be…,” he said after a moment. “It’s Mace.” He dropped his revolver back in its holster and walked out on the porch to greet him. The second he stepped out of the door, the man on horseback reacted much the same way until he recognized him. Mace pulled up right in front of the porch and stepped down. “Damn, cousin,” Boyd remarked, “from the looks of them horses, you musta been doin’ some hard ridin’. Somebody chasin’ you?” He took a long look back at the trail before adding, “I hope to hell it ain’t a posse.”

“I swear, Boyd, what are you doin’ here?” Having ridden as if the devil himself were after him, Mace was at once relieved to be greeted by a friendly face. He had no way of knowing if he had been chased or not. He had not waited around to see, but the image he had seen at the top of that ravine looked like something out of hell, and was a problem he didn’t care to deal with. Seeing his cousin here restored his courage to the point where he could regain his calm.

In answer to Mace’s question, Boyd said, “I’m on my way to meet my brothers down near Medicine Bow. I’ve been up here to visit a little Cheyenne gal in ol’ Red Wind’s village.” He gave Mace a little wink. “But all those bucks are gettin’ stirred up and talkin’ about goin’ on the warpath. It wasn’t too healthy to stay around much longer, being the only white man there.” Clem Russell walked out on the porch then, and Boyd went on. “I had to stop by and spend a little money with ol’ Clem here. I was afraid he wasn’t stealin’ enough to get by.” He laughed at his joke.

“How ya doin’, Mace?” Clem asked. “Ain’t seen you in a good while. Arlo was here for a day or two, till Ned Bull jumped him and dragged him off to Cheyenne. Did they lock him up?”

“They killed him,” Mace replied, causing Clem and Boyd both to react with shock. “That marshal shot him down on the trail to Fort Laramie.” An immediate frown of anger took possession of Boyd’s face. Mace continued. “Me and Beau went after Ned Bull. He ain’t gonna be shootin’ nobody else.”

Boyd glanced at the empty saddle on the buckskin. “Ain’t that a horse like Beau rides?”

Mace nodded solemnly. “That’s Beau’s horse,” he answered, “but they shot Beau.”

“Who did?” Boyd demanded. “That marshal?”

“No. I killed Ned Bull, but he musta had a posse with him, because they got in behind us on a ridge and they hit Beau. Killed him dead. There wasn’t nothin’ I could do for him, and there was too many of ’em for me to fight, so I had to run for it.”

“Damn,” Boyd swore, “Arlo and Beau both, I can’t hardly believe it. What’s poor Aunt Mavis gonna say when she hears that sorry news?”

“I know,” Mace said. “It ain’t gonna be easy to tell her. She’s gonna want somebody to pay for it.”

“Damn right,” Boyd said, “and I feel the same way. Somebody’s got to pay when it comes to family.” Working himself up to a righteous wrath over the thought, he asked, “How many was there in that posse?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Mace replied. “They were hid back up behind the rocks at the top of a long ravine, so I couldn’t see all of ’em. But there was bullets flyin’ all around me when I made a break for it.”

That was enough to plant a worrisome thought in Boyd’s mind. “You think they’re on your trail?”

“Nah, I don’t think so. I’da seen somethin’ by now. I was pretty careful.”

“Well, we ain’t takin’ this lyin’ down,” Boyd ranted. “We need to show the law it’s gonna cost ’em when they come after the Dawsons and the Taggarts. This is family business. We’ll go fetch the rest of the boys and we’ll teach that bunch of farmers to mind who they’re dealin’ with.”

Boyd’s bravado seemed to bolster Mace’s courage. The only one not inspired was Clem Russell, already picturing a bloody war taking place in his saloon. He hesitated to make any demands on behalf of himself or his store, however, and limited his participation to no more than a suggestion that they should all have a drink. That seemed to be the obvious first step in the counterattack on the murdering “posse,” so the meeting moved inside. When Mace came back outside a couple of hours later to take his horses to Clem’s stable behind the store, the plan had been settled to ride to Medicine Bow and enlist Buck, Skinner, and Nate into the vengeance committee.

The drinking went late into the night, which brought a fair profit to Clem. Mace even expressed intentions to avail himself of Clem’s woman’s special services, in spite of his disdain for her. But his overindulgence in Clem’s whiskey rendered him incapable of completing that quest, which brought a fair amount of relief to the Indian woman. All except the woman were reluctant to rise from their beds the next morning, leaving her to breakfast alone while Clem slept in the small room in the back of the store and Boyd snored lustily on a cot in the corner of the store. If the sullen Cheyenne woman saw the silent figure that stopped by the one window on the side to survey the scene inside, she gave no indication. Seeing no threat from those inside the trading post, the figure moved silently along the wall of the store toward the barn in back, pausing briefly at the corral to observe the buckskin and spotted gray standing with the other horses. Inside the barn, Wolf found two stalls. The man he looked for was in the second, fast asleep in the hay.

He moved quickly to the sleeping man, knelt beside him, and shook him gently several times until he struggled to climb out of his alcohol-induced slumber. “What is it? Whaddaya want?” Mace slurred, still very much drunk. “Leave me alone.”

“Mace,” Wolf pronounced his name. “Is that you, Mace?” He had no desire to kill the wrong man.