Free The Range Wolf by Andrew J. Fenady

of the overturned wagon. The teamsters, including Cookie and me, assisted in turning the wagon upright and replacing a broken wheel.
    Precious supplies had been scattered, soaked, and spoiled, lodged in mud.
    Through all this, my main concern was for Flaxen, and as soon as I was able, I went to Dr. Picard.
    He seemed unperturbed, and if anything, grateful for the respite.
    â€œShe’s sleeping like a baby,” he said, “though most babies I’ve come across don’t sleep as reposefully.”
    She was indeed asleep and breathing more evenly than before.
    â€œAnybody badly injured out there?”
    â€œHard to believe, but the answer is no.”
    â€œMacho bastards wouldn’t admit it unless a bone was splintered and hanging out—just to prove how durable they are.”
    â€œWell, no bones were visible as far as I could tell.”
    â€œAnd how about you, Mr. Guthrie? Any worse for the wear?”
    â€œNo, not really . . . and I’m not what you’d call ‘macho.’”
    â€œMaybe not, but I’d say you’re doing all right . . . for a tenderfoot.”
    â€œSo are you, doctor. In more ways than one.”
    â€œAt another time,” he smiled, “I would have said, ‘I’ll drink to that.’”
    As I stepped out of the wagon I heard a voice.
    â€œHow’s she doing?”
    I turned toward Pepper.
    â€œSeems to be doing all right, and so is Dr. Picard.”
    â€œStill sober?”
    â€œStone cold.”
    â€œYou never can tell.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout anything. Take you for example.”
    â€œWhat about me?”
    â€œSome of the boys were bettin’ that Cookie’ud have you quiverin’ by now.”
    â€œHow did you bet, Mr. Pepper?”
    â€œMe? I’m not a bettin’ man, but . . .”
    â€œBut, what?”
    â€œIf you ever want to borrow my Bowie . . . let me know.”
    â€œI will. And thanks, Mr. Pepper . . . for asking about Flaxen, I mean.”
    That night around the campfire, the drovers made up for the missed noon meal by devouring double portions of supper.
    Not all the drovers. Some had eaten earlier and were riding slowly on horseback, curling around the regrouped cattle now asleep, and still damp from the day’s cloudburst.
    I had heard that cowboys, at the end of a hard day’s work, would relax and smoke and yes, sing the songs of the range and lost loves. What I had heard was confirmed that night. Several of the serenaders, led by Smoke’s deep baritone, were vocalizing one of the favorites.

    Oh, Shenandoah, I hear you calling,
Away, you rolling river . . .
Oh Shenandoah, I’m going to leave you
Away I’m bound
Across the wide Missouri

    â€œThat’s enough.”
    Wolf Riker stepped forward into the light of the campfire, followed by Pepper.
    â€œI’ve got something to say.”
    The singing stopped and all faces turned toward Riker.
    I, as well as most of the drovers, I think, believed at the time that Wolf Riker was going to take the opportunity to voice a few words of commendation for a day’s work well done during the unexpected storm and what followed in its wake.
    Riker inhaled a lungful from his cigar and let the smoke drift away from both nostrils.
    â€œThis drive has little more than just begun—and we’re behind schedule. Whose schedule, some of you might ask. I’ll tell you. Mine. And that’s the schedule we’re going to stick to come hell or high tide.
    â€œWhat happened today is nothing to what’s ahead for a thousand miles, from here to the Red and to Kansas.
    â€œI made my speech before you signed, and all of you did sign . . .”
    Wolf Riker looked toward me.
    â€œ. . . except for Guth over there . . .and by the great Lord Harry, you’re going to live up to that agreement, if you have to die trying.
    â€œWe lost some supplies today, so after tonight we’re going to