The Range Wolf by Andrew J. Fenady Page A

sentence entry into my journal.
    It had been a short night.
    And instead of a rooster’s crowing, it was Cookie’s cackling that proclaimed the coming dawn and the grind ahead.
    I was at my usual station behind the serving table when I looked up and saw Wolf Riker’s face directly in front of me and Pepper’s whiskers directly behind him.
    â€œCoffee and biscuit,” Riker said.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Riker, and how are you this morning?”
    â€œIf you’re asking how I feel, Guth, I feel splendid.”
    And he did, indeed, look splendid, with no aftereffect or even any hint of the seizure I had witnessed the night before. If anything, he seemed even more vital than usual this morning.
    â€œBy the way, Guth. I meant to ask you. Do you ride? Horses, I mean.”
    â€œI have ridden horses, Mr. Riker”—I handed him his coffee and biscuit—“but not western saddle.”
    â€œEnglish? Is that it?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHow civilized . . . and impractical out here. Pepper, would you kindly pick a gelding out of the remuda for Guth?”
    â€œTobacco ought to fit the bill,” Pepper said.
    â€œAnd have somebody throw on a saddle, a western saddle.”
    â€œSure, since that’s all we got. He can use Donavan’s.”
    â€œGood. Have Dogbreath see to it. And Guth, take a turn or two along the herd. Think you can manage that with a western saddle?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œJust a minute, Mr. Riker.”
    â€œWhat is it, Cookie?”
    â€œI heard what you said about him joy ridin’ out there . . .”
    â€œDid I say anything about joy riding?”
    â€œThat’s what it sounds like, and I need him around here to do a full day’s work with me.”
    â€œWell, you’ll just have to do a full day’s work without him. I want every man on this drive to be able to ride hard and shoot straight.”
    Riker took a swallow of coffee and as he bit into the biscuit French Frank spoke up.
    â€œMr. Riker. There’s something you ought to know.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThat saddle that belonged to Donavan now belongs to me.”
    â€œHow’d you come by it?”
    â€œGambled. Me and Latimer. I drew high card and won.”
    â€œWhat’re you going to do with two saddles? You got two asses?”
    â€œNo, I ain’t. But it’s my saddle fair and square.”
    Riker took another swallow from the cup and looked at me.
    â€œWhat do you say to that, Guth? Want to fight him for it?”
    I did not want to fight French Frank, or anybody.
    â€œNo, sir. But I’ll make a bet with you, French Frank.”
    â€œWhat kind of bet?”
    â€œHow much do you think that saddle’s worth?”
    â€œI’d say up to twenty dollars.”
    â€œVery well, I’ll double that. Forty dollars if you win—against the saddle if I win. High card. You have a deck of cards with you?”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œI’ll even sweeten the deal. You can draw two cards against my one. My card has to be higher than both of yours combined. Face cards don’t count. Aces count one apiece.”
    â€œI thought you wanted to get an early start this morning,” Chandler, the trail boss, reminded Wolf Riker. “We’re burning daylight.”
    â€œThis won’t take long,” I said. “If French Frank wants to bet.”
    â€œForty dollars,” French Frank scratched his chin. “I get two cards to your one. Right?”
    â€œRight. Shall we get on with it? As Mr. Chandler said, ‘we’re burning daylight.’”
    French Frank produced a deck of well-worn cards from the pocket of his corduroy shirt.
    â€œYou’re on. Who draws first?”
    â€œYou, of course. But . . .”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œMay I shuffle?”
    French Frank slapped the dank deck into my outstretched palm.
    I proceeded to shuffle my Bureau of