“The name’s Jim,” the fellow replied tightly.
Wolf smiled. “Wolf Caulder. Pleased to meet you, Abe.”
He glanced up at the shaken Luke Dawson and smiled. “A new deck, please.”
The man hesitated, then went back to the counter to return a moment later with the fresh deck Wolf had requested. Wolf opened it, cut it, and passed it across to Abe Dawson.
The game began.
It was late and Wolf was winning. The pile of chips in front of him was double the size of Abe Dawson’s. And Abe was sweating. The other games had died soon after this one began and the bar was clean of drinkers as everyone in the place—including Abe’s brother—crowded around to watch.
The other two players, caught up in the business like grains of sand in a dust devil, continued in the game, contributing little more than occasional bets and half audible remarks. The game was really just between Wolf and Abe—and everyone in the place knew it.
Wolf was dealing—swiftly, expertly, the sound of the cards slicking over the table clearly audible in the big room. Abruptly, in dealing a card to himself, Wolf lost it and it fell to the floor. Though Wolf picked up the card swiftly, the deck out of sight of the other players for no more than a second or two, Abe was quick to call it.
“Mis-deal!” he said. “New deck.”
Wolf shrugged, pulled the already dealt cards back into the pack and gave it to Abe’s brother when the man brought the new deck. Wolf lost the deal and the game continued.
Two hands later Wolf leaned back. Discarding two cards, he had drawn to three aces and had come up with a pair of kings. A glance across the table had already told him that Abe Dawson was moderately pleased with what he had come up with. Abe had drawn three cards. The betting began in earnest and the other two players quickly dropped out.
Wolf looked across at Dawson. “Table stakes, ain’t it, Dawson?” Wolf had been addressing Dawson by his real name all evening—until at last the man had begun to answer to it, a dogged defiance burning in his eyes as he thus admitted his true identity and that of his brother to those in the saloon.
Dawson nodded.
“How much you got in front of you?”
Dawson counted quickly. “One hundred and fifty.”
Wolf had already counted his own chips. The pot contained better than fifty. “I’ve got three hundred,” he told Dawson. “And I’m betting it all. You planning on matching it?”
Dawson looked quickly over at his brother, who was standing behind the crowd. Luke’s face was as desperate and grim as that of his brother. He nodded bleakly.
Dawson looked back at Wolf. “The house will match your bet,” he said, pushing into the pot what chips remained in front of him. “And I’m calling you.”
Wolf pushed his chips into the pot, then slapped his hand down. There was a surprised murmur when the crowd saw the full house, ace high. Glaring angrily at Wolf, Abe flung down his hand. Wolf reached out to rake in the chips. As he did so, two cards—a ten of hearts and a six of spades—dropped from his shirt sleeve and landed face up on the table.
At sight of those cards Dawson’s face went livid. All night Wolf had been crowding him, his intent obviously far more deadly and more final than revealing his identity or defeating him in a game of poker. Yet Abe had hung on to his composure, grimly determined to do nothing that would give Wolf Caulder an excuse to draw on him. But this was too much. As Wolf had expected, the sight of those palmed cards falling onto the table pushed Abe Dawson over the edge.
“You’ve been cheatin’ us!” Abe cried, jumping to his feet and clawing for his six-gun.
Wolf’s left hand was under the table. As Abe jumped up, Wolf shoved the table forward. Its edge caught Abe’s right hand, pinning his gun hand against his thigh. Ramming the table ruthlessly forward, Wolf drove Dawson back against the wall and drew his own six-gun.
The two players and the spectators scrambled back out of the line of fire while Luke Dawson raced for the bar. As Wolf—still driving on Abe—brought his Colt up to finish him, he caught the glint of a shotgun barrel on his right. Still holding the table hard against Abe, Wolf spun to face Luke and fired, all in the same motion.
The bullet slammed into the mirror behind Luke. The startled man ducked away from the shattering glass and dove back down behind the bar. Wolf turned around to face Abe again. The man had twisted free, and his right hand, no longer pinned, was bringing his six-gun up. Wolf did not wait. He fired point-black at Abe Dawson.
The bullet caught the man just above the heart, stamping a dark hole in his blue vest and driving him back against the wall. But solid against it, he fired coolly back at Wolf. The bullet ticked Wolf’s shirt sleeve as he fired a second time. This slug caught Abe just above his sagging gun belt. Without waiting to see if it was sufficient to stop the man, Wolf turned to see about his brother.
Luke had popped up further down the bar and was in the act of aiming his shotgun a second time. Wolf upended the table and dove behind it. The shotgun went off like a cannon, and Wolf felt the table shudder with the impact of the shot. An angry swarm of hornets fastened on the calf of his right leg. Peering over the table, Wolf saw Luke swing the shotgun toward him. He ducked back down as it thundered a second time, the buckshot thudding fiercely against the table, tearing the top of it to shreds and expending itself into the wall behind Wolf.
Quickly Wolf looked over what was left of the table—sighted and fired. Luke was in the act of pulling the shotgun back down behind the bar when Wolf’s .44-40 slug opened a hole in his face just below his right cheekbone. Instantly the hole appeared to open and swallow the man’s entire face. Luke dropped the shotgun onto the bar and grabbed at his bloody, disintegrating face with both hands, his eyes bulging in terror. Then he sank out of sight behind the bar.
Wolf looked back at Abe Dawson. The dying man had slid down the wall and was now sitting in a widening pool of his own blood, his six-gun still clutched in his hand. He stared slack-jawed up at Wolf. But though he was dying, he was not dead yet. He began to raise his Colt to fire again at Wolf. Wolf fired from the hip, smashing the six-gun out of his hand and sending it clattering across the floor.
Wolf looked about him. Several men were standing with their hands resting lightly on the butts of their six-guns. But not one seemed ready to make a play. As Wolf fixed them with his eye, they allowed their hands to fall away from their sidearms. Wolf had only one bullet left. And perhaps they knew it. But they had seen enough that night.
Wolf walked behind the bar. He took out the cash drawer containing the money and poker chips and set it on top of the bar, placing his six-gun alongside it. Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out a sizable wad of bills and carefully counted out an amount equal to his winnings. Pocketing the bills and a few gold coins, he stepped over Luke Dawson’s body, then walked down the length of the bar, turned to face the saloon full of men and bar girls and backed toward the door.
He was almost to it when he heard the thump of running boots on the wooden sidewalk outside. He turned his head in time to see Burt Alvard burst into the saloon, his six-gun in his hand. The sheriff was covered with a ghostly patina of trail dust from his hat to his boots, and Wolf realized he must have just come back from searching for Cal Swinnerton.
“What the hell’s going on in here?” he demanded of Wolf.
Then he saw Abe Dawson’s body slumped on the floor beside the overturned table.
“Get him, Sheriff!” someone in the crowd of men cried. “He just killed the Dawson brothers!”
The sheriff started to lift his weapon; but before he could get it up, Wolf slammed his gun barrel down on the man’s wrist, knocking the sheriff’s gun to the floor. But Alvard was game. He tried to grab Wolf’s gun hand. Wolf pulled his hand back, sidestepped the lunging man and swung the barrel of his Colt hard against Alvard’s head.
The sheriff groaned and sagged to the floor. Stepping over the man, Wolf ducked out of the saloon. As he did so, a sudden fusillade of s
lugs tore the fragile batwings to shreds behind him.
Running down the street toward the livery, Wolf became aware of a warm heaviness in his right boot—and remembered the light spray of buckshot that had caught him in his right calf. But he did not pause, and with the cries of his pursuers filling the night, he ducked into the livery.
By the single lantern hanging from a rafter, Wolf saw his black—fully saddled, the saddle roll snug behind the cantle, the rifle in its sling—standing ready for him.
“Heard the commotion,” Gabe said with a smile as he handed Wolf the reins. “Reminds me of the way I used to leave town—when I was a mite younger and faster.”
Wolf swung into the saddle with a nod of thanks to Gabe. “I won’t forget this,” he told the man.
“That’s all right. A deal’s a deal. Besides, you ain’t out of this place yet.”
And then Gabe saw Wolf’s bleeding right calf. The blood was making heavy sounds as it dripped to the straw-littered floor of the stable. The man ducked quickly to a trunk by the wall. He threw up the lid and reached into it, turned and tossed a small glass jar at Wolf. Wolf snatched it out of the air.
“Take that,” he said. “The Navajos give it to me. It’s good for buckshot and snake bite!”
Without further word, Wolf spurred his horse forward, ducked low and galloped out of the stable into the night. Before him he saw scurrying figures and heard the clatter of hooves as others lifted onto their mounts. He spurred away from the saloon and galloped through the night down a small side street, then cut along a narrow, rutted road that paralleled Main Street, broke back to the main street on the other side of the saloon and galloped out of town, lifting quickly into the foothills of the Absarokas, the sound of pursuit growing dim behind him above the pounding of his black’s hooves.
Six
High into the Absarokas Wolf rode, the posse following him with surprising tenacity. Wolf had been able to stop once to warm himself by a small fire, and had taken the opportunity to wrap strips from a torn shirt about his right leg. The buckshot had gone clear through and made a mess of his calf. But the salve Gabe had given him went to work almost immediately after he rubbed it into the wounds. Still, he had lost a lot of blood, and by dawn the following morning, he knew he would have to scatter the posse to give himself a chance to rest up.
Galloping well into a long valley, he eventually passed a stand of small pines, huddled alone by the banks of a cold stream. Wolf noticed that there was nothing about them but the valley floor, while just beyond them a sharp, almost precipitous ridge loomed against the sky.
Wolf knew at once that he had found the spot he was looking for.
He headed the black directly for the steep slope and started up. The footing was rough, but he urged his horse forward and kept going up until an outcropping of rock stopped him; he coaxed the black around it and found another short passable trail and pushed steadily upward. In this manner he worked himself two or three hundred feet up the side of the ridge before pausing to give the black a breather.
He looked back down at the valley. The posse was still not in sight. Turning, he patted his mount gently on the side of his neck and urged him on.
Wolf fought his way over some of the roughest footing he had ever seen. At last he was forced to dismount and lead the black, breaking through vine undergrowth, circling great masses of fallen rock and jumping deep gullies torn out of the steep grade. The horse came patiently after, sometimes taking a gully or a small outcropping of rock with a lunge that pushed Wolf out of the way. On more than one occasion Wolf found himself clinging to the bridle to keep the horse from sliding back down the slope.
He kept climbing in this fashion for better than an hour, until finally a narrow glen appeared in the ravine’s side, opening onto a kind of long chute. Wolf mounted up, clapped spurs to the flanks of his black and rode into it.
Now he made better time and eventually rode into an area of bald, worn rock. He passed around chunks of rock standing like sentinels at least two stories high and came upon a trail winding between worn walls of steep rock. He kept to the trail until he emerged at last atop the ridge, the valley he had left an hour or more before stretched out like a toy land far below him.
He found a small patch of fresh grass and dismounted, tying the black’s reins to a small sapling. He was sorry there was no water handy for the horse, but the black had had a good rest in Landusky and did not seem to be laboring any. Taking his Winchester from its sling, his saddle bags, and his slicker from the bed roll, he found a clump of rock on the crest of the ridge and settled down behind it. It felt good to get off his right leg.
Every inch of the valley was spread out below him, the clump of pine standing out boldly in the early morning sunlight, more than five hundred yards back of the ridge’s base. Wolf knew he would have to wait until the posse got well beyond the pines before opening up.
He reached into one of the saddle bags for a fresh box of cartridges and placed it on a ledge of rock beside him. Then he folded the slicker and used it as a cushion for his elbow.
As he lifted the rifle and watched the valley floor, Wolf found himself thinking once again of old Diego Sanchez. It was at times like this, alone with his rifle, that Wolf remembered how the man had coaxed him to fire from the left side of his face. Wolf had fought against accepting the loss of his right eye and sometimes he was sure he could feel his right eyeball blinking just under the patch.
Diego reached out a brown arm and pulled Wolf around to face him. “The eye, it is not there, my son! Do not live with ghosts!”
He took the rifle from Wolf’s small hands, turned the boy back around and fitted the rifle to his left shoulder.
“Now, my young wolf cub, fire! See that fence post. Fire at it! It is one of those who took from you your right eye, who shot down your father and your mother! Shoot!”
Wolf squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired and the stock drove back brutally into his left shoulder—but a portion of the post disintegrated as the bullet struck it. For the first time that morning he had hit what he had aimed at. He turned completely around so that he could fix the old foreman with his one left eye.
“Yes, Diego,” he said. “You are right. I should fire from my left side but still, my right eye—I can feel it! Perhaps the patch is too tight?”
The old man smiled and shrugged. “Yes... perhaps the patch is too tight.” His rough, yet gentle hands reached out and he untied the lacing holding the black eye patch and retied it so that it was not so tight.
Then, with a gentle hand on Wolf’s shoulder, he turned him back around to face the fence post. Wolf lifted the rifle to his left shoulder and squeezed off another shot. This time the bullet buried itself deep into the willow post. Wolf looked at Diego and smiled proudly.
“You see,” said Diego. “Already you are learning. Just two weeks after you leave the bed and already you with your one eye are as good as I with two!”
Wolf levered another cartridge into the firing chamber, lifted the rifle and fired a third time. The bullet struck the top of the post and ricocheted off, sending a spray of splinters into the air above the post.
Diego slapped him on the back and leaned close. “It will be sweet, my young wolf cub—sweet indeed for you to drink the blood of those vultures. Your mother and your father will look down upon you from heaven and bless you for avenging them. It will be justice, my son. Justice. You will see …”
It had not been sweet, however. That part of it was an old man’s lie. But he had avenged the brutal killing of his mother and his father and gained a measure of peace, thereby. For there is no justice without retribution. That much, at least, Diego had taught him.
There was a movement well beyond the pines. Wolf blinked his single eye and looked closer. A dot moved, and then another. He counted the horses. Twelve. A sizable posse.
Wolf checked his rifle and waited.
By mid-morning horses and riders were clearly visible as the posse neared the pines
. Wolf could see the lead rider—and the fresh bandage wound around his head, the white cloth gleaming in the morning sunlight. Sheriff Alvard.
Wolf was sorry he had hit the man that hard, but glad to see that he had not been prevented from leading this posse because of the clubbing. He was an unusually good sheriff for a town like Landusky, and Wolf respected him.
The posse passed the pines and continued toward the ridge, obviously following Wolf’s tracks. They were strung out somewhat and for Wolf’s purposes it would have been better if they were closely bunched. Abruptly, less than five hundred yards from the base of the ridge, Alvard pulled up and twisted around in his saddle. Wolf smiled. The sheriff had seen that Wolf’s tracks were heading straight for the ridge rather than following the trail through the valley, and he had decided to talk it over with the posse. Wolf, he knew, was probably above them at that moment, waiting for them to get closer.
Wolf sighted quickly and fired. The ground just in front of the feet of the sheriff’s horse exploded in dust and the horse reared. Levering quickly, Wolf fired in rapid succession, spraying lead around the posse’s mounts. Soon the whinnying of frightened horses carried up to the lip of the ridge to mingle with the crashing echoes of Wolf’s Winchester. Men were sprawling into the dust as they toppled off their unruly horses, while others, desperately trying to remain in the saddle drew their six-guns and threw futile shots up at Wolf.
As Wolf had expected, those on horseback and those now on foot bolted back for the cover of the pines. And among those on foot, Wolf noted, was the sheriff, himself. And he was limping. Others were holding their arms.
Wolf kept firing, doing what he could to keep the riderless horses in panic until at last they bolted completely and set off back down the valley. By the time the remnants of the posse got back to the shelter of the pines, only four riders were still on their horses. Sighting carefully and raising the barrel high enough to compensate, Wolf threw a few more shots at those still on their horses, causing a final flurry of panic before they all disappeared into the pines.
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