Read Online The Range Wolf by Andrew J. Fenady - Free Book Online Page B

war. A war he’s still fighting.”
    There came a sound from Flaxen, an effort to say something. Unintelligible to me.
    â€œDoctor, can you understand what she’s saying?”
    â€œNo. No more than you can . . . or she can. She’s still unconscious. I think you’d better go now and let her rest.”
    â€œI have to go now . . . or undergo another tirade from grease belly.”
    â€œGrease belly?” Dr. Picard smiled.
    â€œYes. I’m acquiring the nomenclature of the cattle drive . . . and there’s something you have to do now, doctor.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œEat.” I pointed to the plate and cup on the table. “That’s my prescription.”
    â€œAnd not a bad one at that. Doctor Guthrie.”
    As I left, I reflected on Flaxen’s good fortune. If Dr. Picard had not been on this drive, Flaxen Brewster already would have been dead and buried in the dry sea of Texas.
    But in spite of him . . . she still might.

CHAPTER XV
    Less than four hours later Texas was anything but a dry sea—at least this part of Texas.
    Without warning the sky turned black before noon and brought forth a saturating torrent.
    There came the sound of unseen cannon thundering in the distance—then closer, followed by jagged patterns of lightning crisscrossing just above the barely visible horizon.
    What had been a dry, baked cake of soil turned into a massive sponge absorbing a cascade of soaking flurry.
    Where minutes before were gnarled cracks in the earth suddenly were rivulets, then surging streams.
    It was what Texans call a goose drowner—but, of course, there were no geese. No birds or animals of any kind—except those that were a part of the drive. Thousands upon thousands of moaning, snorting, dripping, blinded beeves.
    But I found out that cattle are unpredictable creatures—partly because sometimes, they themselves don’t know how they’re going to react under the same circumstances. On some occasions the clap of thunder, like the crescendo of gunshots, will trigger a stampede. On other occasions, such as this one, when, at the same time, the sky unleashes a shower of pelting rain, the animals are stunned, uncertain, and scatter tentatively in multiple directions.
    Hooves and horns were moving every which way.
    Almost a hundred riderless horses that made up the remuda, battered by the pouring rain, tried turning their backs against the onslaught.
    Oxen that pulled the loaded wagons were barely able to draw the wagon wheels through the sudden mud.
    One of the wagons carrying supplies twisted and overturned in a glutted gully, spilling its cargo onto the rain splattered barranca.
    Chandler, Reese, Smoke, Simpson, Dogbreath, Latimer, Drago, Leach, Morales One, Morales Two, and the rest, along with Wolf Riker, drenched drovers all on horseback, cursed through the downpour, desperately trying to maintain order, or doing their damnest to at least prevent chaos.
    I imagine that Cookie’s cursing was the loudest and most blasphemous, but then, he was the nearest to me, and I assume the nearest he’d come to a bath in some time.
    And then as abruptly as it began, it was over.
    A sudden summer storm quelled by an unseen hand—and the sky a blanket of blue gloss.
    The immediate task was to round up the scattered cattle and the horses of the remuda—a task that would consume the rest of the day—and by Wolf Riker’s order, cancel the noon meal.
    For the rest of the day Wolf Riker seemed to be everywhere. At the point, on the flanks, at the tail, barking orders, and pointing in all directions at the broken herd, making sure that the gaps were closed and that Leach and the drag men pressured the stragglers into place.
    With empty bellies and soaked skin, the drovers never even thought of dismounting until the task was finished.
    Another task was to assess the damage. Surprisingly no one was seriously injured, not even the driver