The Range Wolf by Andrew J. Fenady Page B

Military Justice shuffle and extended the deck.
    French Frank drew a card and displayed a six of diamonds.
    â€œVery good,” I nodded. “Draw again.”
    He turned up a jack of clubs.
    â€œFace card,” I smiled. “Doesn’t count. Draw again.”
    French Frank drew a three of hearts.
    â€œSix and three,” I said, “totals nine. My draw.”
    I picked my card and turned over the ten of spades.
    â€œWell, it was close,” I remarked and replaced the winning card.
    French Frank’s mouth twisted downward. He thrust the deck back into his shirt pocket.
    â€œI want to think this over. I think maybe you pulled a fast one.”
    â€œThink it over later,” Riker said, “and get to work now.”
    I thought something over, too.
    Wolf Riker’s attitude toward me—and the perceptible change that appeared to accompany it.
    I wasn’t quite sure why, but it definitely seemed like a change for the better.
    However, as I had noted before, it was a long way to Kansas.
    I stood by, watched and listened, as Dogbreath bridled, saddled, and cinched the paraphernalia onto the horse called Tobacco, which was indeed the color, or colors, of a bright leaf.
    The procedure was simple enough for even a Harvard graduate to understand and execute.
    Dogbreath’s description of the horse was a trifle less intelligible, with such phrases as bridle wise, clear footed, can carry the news to Mary, neck reiner, smooth mouthed, swimmer —but I discerned that it all added up to a positive appraisal of the gelding called Tobacco.
    I mounted and rode slowly past the kitchen wagon where Cookie and French Frank were carrying on a conversation, a conversation that most likely didn’t concern the day’s menu.
    It did not take long to determine that, as Dr. Picard would say, Tobacco and I were sympathique . And almost the same could be said for the late Donavan’s saddle. It was much more form fitting and comfortable than the pancake English version.
    Within an hour Tobacco and I had ambled, trotted, and even galloped past many of the riders prodding the cattle: Smoke, Dogbreath, Reese, Latimer, Drago, Simpson, Morales One, Morales Two, and some of the rest, at first near, then farther away from the herd. At that point I reined up, patted Tobacco’s neck, and even spoke a few flattering words to my newfound acquaintance and friend. That’s when another acquaintance rode alongside and started an all too amiable conversation.
    â€œHow’re you gettin’ along, pard?” French Frank inquired. “You and ol’ Tobac?”
    â€œOl’ Tobac and I are getting along very compatibly, thank you.”
    â€œUh-huh. And the saddle?” He pointed.
    â€œAlso compatible.”
    As he pointed, I noticed that he held a flexible, woven leather whip with a short stock about a foot long and with a loop attached to his wrist. The whip carried a lash of three or four heavy, loose thongs. Later I was to learn that it was called a quirt—and soon I was to learn one of the purposes for which it could be used.
    â€œO.K., pard. Let’s see how you and ol’ Tobac can really get along.”
    With that he thrashed Tobacco’s rump, again and again, flogging the animal into a frenzy. Tobacco bolted ahead like a rifle shot, his hooves barely touching the ground.
    French Frank roared with glee and laughter and chased after us for even more merriment. He managed to catch up to us, then, with all his might swung a backhanded blow with the quirt at Tobacco’s head. I held the reins with one hand, reached out and took the blow on my wrist, wrapped my hand around the thongs, braced both feet into the stirrups and jerked back with every fiber of strength I could muster.
    Once again French Frank flew off his mount, this time even more abruptly, and hit the ground even more violently than the time Wolf Riker backhanded him off the saddle.
    Tobacco came to a halt