Free The Range Wolf by Andrew J. Fenady Page B

even a ranch.
    Wolf Riker, himself, had acknowledged that I, unlike the others, had not signed on for the drive.
    At any of those places he could not prevent me from abandoning the drive—and taking Flaxen with me if she survived.
    And I would be more than happy to compensate Riker for his trouble. I had no money with me, thanks to that thief, Cookie. But I still had my bankbook to prove my financial worth—and would make it worth his while.
    If there were such a place, an outpost, Wolf Riker would stop and purchase supplies.
    And I would purchase my freedom—mine and Flaxen’s. Somehow, the thought of all this set my mind somewhat at ease.
    In the meanwhile, I would begin a new journal, of the characters and events chronicling at least one small chapter in the history of the West.
    If I survived it might be published and read by some of those countless thousands of pilgrims from all corners of the European continent who now reside in the Eastern region of this continent. The daring, restless souls who dream of adventure and fortune in the Western states and territories—the seekers who hark to what has been called the Manifest Destiny of this great nation.
    The first entry into that journal is made up of the hundred or so lines written above—and the journal is entitled
    Â 
    THE RANGE WOLF CATTLE DRIVE

CHAPTER XVII
    The next morning at first light I was awakened by a cackle and a familiar voice struggling to read words that were familiar to me—familiar because they were words I had written the night before.
    â€œ. . . seekers . . . who . . . hark to the . . . Man . . . Manifest . . . Dest . . . inee . . . hmmp . . . and the . . . journal . . . is . . . is . . . en-tite-led THE RANGE WOLF . . . heeh . . . heh—CATTLE . . .”
    â€œGoddamn you!” I leaped up and grabbed the pages from Cookie’s dirty hands.
    â€œHere! Here!” He cawed. “Ain’t you the twitchy one. I seen you scribblin’ away last night. Just wonderin’ what you was up to . . . just . . .”
    â€œJust mind your own damn business . . .”
    â€œEverythin’ that goes on around here is my business. Get that straight, shorthorn, ’cause Eustice Munger, that’s me, Eustice Munger, is the eyes and ears of this outfit who reports what he sees and hears directly to Mr. Wolf Riker.”
    â€œSo you’re the official informer, is that it?”
    â€œThat’s one way of puttin’ it.”
    â€œWell, you can inform Mr. Wolf Riker, or anybody else, of whatever you see and hear, but whatever I write on my own time is my private affair . . .”
    â€œYou ain’t got any ‘own time’ or any ‘private affairs, ’ not on this drive, not while you’re workin’ for me. Better get that straight, too, waddy. As for what you write from now on, I don’t give a short bit. That’ll be between you and Mr. Riker. Now get your stringy ass over to the oven and get to work, NOW!”
    So much for my standing up for my rights and privileges on the drive.
    I got my stringy ass over to the oven and went to work on what had to be done in preparation for the morning meal.
    But I was not prepared for what ensued.
    There had been some murmured remarks from some of the drovers in the breakfast line, but Simpson’s remark was not murmured as he held out the tin cup.
    â€œThis doesn’t taste much like coffee.”
    Cookie’s retort was just as audible.
    â€œThat’s ’cause I didn’t use much coffee in the makin’ of it—used grain that we got more of— and the beans is gonna be damn sparse, too, come noon and suppertime—and the bread . . .”
    Wolf Riker pushed his way to the head of the line.
    â€œCookie, give me a cup of that coffee.”
    â€œSure thing, Mr. Riker.” Cookie nodded with his seldom smile. “Comin’ right up.”
    â€œAnd fill it up,” Riker added.
    â€œSure