Day of the Wolf

by Charles G. West

  “I reckon I could,” he replied hesitantly. “But I reckon she’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Why don’t you go tell her?” Lorena insisted.

  He shrugged, unable to think of a reason not to, then finally said, “I reckon she’ll wanna know she don’t have to be afraid no more.”

  She watched him move through the crowded saloon and hesitate at the door to the back hall for a long moment. Go on, you dumb bastard, she urged silently, open the door. Just when it appeared he was going to turn around and come back to the bar, he suddenly grabbed the knob and opened the door. Well, congratulations, Lorena, you just lost the best chance you had to expand your business. You’d better start looking for a replacement.

  “Who is it?” Rose called out from behind the closed door.

  “It’s me, Wolf,” he replied. “If you’re busy, I can come back later.”

  She opened the door at once. “Come in, Wolf,” she said politely while studying his face much the same as Lorena had before. “Are you all right? Did you—”

  “He’s dead,” he replied without waiting for her to finish. “They’re all dead, so I just wanted to let you know you don’t have to worry about them no more.”

  “I’m really glad to know that,” she said, finding their conversation stiff. “And I appreciate you coming to tell me.” There was an awkward lapse of silence then when it appeared he had nothing more to say. “How is your wound?” she asked to break the impasse. “Has it started to bleed again?”

  “No.” He looked down at a stain on his shirt. “That’s just an old one. It’s holdin’ up just fine.”

  “That’s good. I guess you can pretty much take care of it now. You don’t need anybody to take care of you.”

  “I reckon not,” he muttered. They stood there for a long moment more in the cumbersome silence. Finally he grasped the doorknob as if to leave, but hesitated, and the faltering words spilled out. “I might need somebody to take care of me. I mean, if somebody wanted to. I mean, I’d do my best to take care of them, too.” He suddenly felt as if he had plunged into a bottomless pool and he was struggling to reach the surface for air. But the smile that lit up her face encouraged him to say, “I’ve got an extra horse now, and a saddle, so you wouldn’t have to ride behind me.”

  She stepped up to him and put her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, her head nestled against his chest. “I’m not really sure if you’re asking or not,” she said, “but my answer is yes.” She pulled back then to peer straight into his eyes. “I’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  His grin spread all the way across his face. It was the first time she had witnessed such emotion on the habitually stony countenance. “We can even get married if you want to,” he suggested.

  “Whatever you want,” she replied, then pulled back again. “But if we do, I’ll not be Mrs. Wolf. What is your proper name? You must have one.”

  He had to think for a moment before saying, “Tom Logan.”

  She smiled, pleased. “That sounds a lot more respectable—Mrs. Thomas Logan. Come on! Let’s go tell Lorena.”

  “I think she’s already figured it out,” he replied sheepishly.

  Chapter 14

  Walter Hoffman, undertaker and barber, directed his assistant, Harvey, to dig a little more dirt out of the fresh grave just dug at the edge of Mt. Moriah Cemetery. “We wanna make sure he don’t come back up,” he joked. The grave was located next to another recent one on which the dirt was still settling. He turned then when he heard a horse snort and discovered a rider approaching from the other side of the cemetery. “Howdy,” Walt greeted the stranger when he rode up and stopped beside the grave.

  “Howdy,” the rider returned. “A feller in town told me you was fixin’ to bury somebody today. I thought maybe I’d take a look at the body.”

  His request struck Walt and Harvey as strange. “The lid’s already nailed on the coffin,” Walt said. “Did you think you knew the feller?”

  “I might. That’s why I wanna take a look.”

  “Maybe I can save you the trouble,” Walt said, not wishing to open the coffin. “The feller in the box is supposed to be the brother of the one in that grave,” he said, and nodded toward the other grave. “And they were both killers and outlaws. Ain’t likely it’s anybody you know.”

  “Open it up,” Nate Dawson demanded softly as his hand dropped to rest on the butt of his rifle.

  Walt had no further thoughts of objecting. There was no room for argument in the tone of the stranger’s voice. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Harvey, get that claw-hammer off the buckboard.” Nate remained in the saddle, watching Harvey until he returned with the hammer and handed it to Walt. Without hesitation, Walt went around the edge of the pine box, prying the nails out. When he had removed enough to lift one side of the coffin about eight inches, he said, “That’ll give you enough room to take a look inside. Is that all right?” Nate didn’t answer but dismounted, grabbed the lid, and forced it a little farther. “You know him?” Walt asked.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Nate muttered, barely above a whisper as he stared at the ghastly image of his older brother. No attempt had been made to dignify Buck’s remains. The body had simply been loaded into the wooden box. Nate felt the muscles in his arms tighten as a result of the white-hot anger that raced through his veins. “Yeah, I know him,” he repeated. “I know both of them.” He glanced at the grave next to the open one. “They’re my brothers.” His calm announcement conveyed the promise of something sinister to follow, causing both Walt and Harvey to take a step backward in case a violent storm was about to occur. Instead, Nate simply said, “Close it up.”

  Relieved to see there was no intent to take his anger out on him, Walt was quick to comply. “I’m real sorry about your brothers,” he offered as he quickly drove the nails back into the coffin. “I’m just the undertaker. I didn’t have nothing to do with their deaths. Would you need to spend some time with the deceased before we bury him?” When Nate shook his head, still calm, Walt decided it was safe to make an attempt for additional profit. He had claimed the weapons and the little bit of gold dust that was left on the bodies as his payment, but he thought it worth a try to take advantage of the brother’s grief. “I was wondering if you might wanna reimburse me for my expenses in burying your brothers. I’m out quite a bit on the coffins and the burial itself.”

  He was answered with a stare as cold as ice and the only vocal response was a question. “Who killed my brothers?”

  Wishing desperately not to be a part of the violence that was sure to follow, but afraid not to answer the stranger’s question, Walt stammered, “Fellow name of Wolf.”

  “He killed both of ’em,” Harvey offered.

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He’s a friend of them whores at the Star of Deadwood,” Harvey blurted.

  Nate stepped back up in the saddle and pulled his horse’s head around toward town. “Cover him up proper,” he instructed Walt.

  “You didn’t say if you wanted to help with my expenses,” Walt said.

  Ignoring the undertaker’s solicitation, Nate kicked his horse into a lope, heading for town. Wolf, he thought. The same man Boyd had said was Mace Taggart’s killer. And now he’s killed Buck and either Skinner or Boyd. I don’t know which. What kind of man was panther enough to kill his brothers? And where was the surviving brother? If he knew his brothers as well as he thought, either Skinner or Boyd was searching for this wild man, Wolf, just as he was. He only hoped that he found him first.

  Walt and Harvey stood for a moment, watching Nate ride off toward town, still amazed by what had just taken place. “Let’s hurry up and cover this one up,” Walt said, anxious to get back to town. “I believe there’s gonna be some more business coming our way pretty damn quick.” They hurriedly picked up the coffin and dropped it unceremoniously into the bottom of the grave.

  “Uh-oh,” Harvey blurted when one side of the flimsy box split upon imp
act.

  “Don’t make no difference,” Walt said, already shoveling dirt on top of it.

  She had guessed right. Lorena shook her head, still finding it hard to believe nonetheless. She couldn’t help feeling joyous on Rose’s account, since the young girl had wanted it so badly. But she had to also feel concern for the success of a union between Rose and the, frankly, uncivilized man of the mountains. Where would they go? How would they live? Like Indians? For Wolf, or Tom Logan, according to Rose, knew little about anything other than hunting. When she and Billie Jean asked the couple about their plans, they were answered with the honest confession that they didn’t know. “I reckon I can feed us, no matter where we go,” Wolf told them. “Ned Bull thought I oughta scout for the army. I’m pretty good with horses. Maybe I could raise ’em, or maybe I can learn to farm.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Billie Jean scoffed, unable to picture him in any of those roles.

  “It doesn’t matter if we don’t make it but one day,” Rose replied joyously. “At least we’ll have that day.”

  Looking at the lean, powerfully built specimen of feral man, Billie Jean grunted, amused by the thought. “One day of the wolf,” she said, “might be worth it at that.” She picked up one of two bags that Rose had packed to take with her, and she and Lorena followed the couple out to the horses. They were going to Wolf’s camp in the mountains now to decide where they were going from there. It was understandable to both of her friends that she wanted to leave Deadwood behind immediately, as well as the life she had known there. “Going on your honeymoon, huh, stud?” Billie Jean teased, amused by the flush of embarrassment on Wolf’s face.

  He placed his rifle in the saddle sling, then helped Rose up in Skinner’s saddle. “I’ll need to take these up some,” he said, and started to adjust her stirrups. He heard the slug impact against Rose’s shoulder at almost the same time he heard the gunshot, and he caught her in his arms when she fell from the saddle. He staggered back a step to catch his balance and saw the gunman standing near the saloon door, his rifle trained on him. Caught with Rose in his arms, and his rifle in his saddle sling, he was helpless to defend her or himself. He braced himself for the shot that had to come, but his assailant paused, with his rifle still trained on him. “Just so you know who killed you, my name’s Nate Dawson, and I’m fixin’ to send you to hell for killin’ my brothers.” Then he suddenly jerked to one side as first one bullet and then a second ripped into his ribs, dropping him in a heap on the ground.

  “We’ll see about that,” Billie Jean said as she held her double-barreled derringer up as if to examine it. Standing only a couple of feet from Nate when he fired the shot that hit Rose, Billie Jean had shoved her derringer into his side and fired both barrels. The last of the evil clan of brothers was dead seconds after he hit the ground.

  The next moments were chaotic as Wolf carried Rose back into the saloon with Lorena and Billie Jean running to help him. “Take her in my room,” Lorena ordered. “Billie Jean, go get the doctor.” She talked to the wounded girl as Wolf swept through the barroom to the hallway door. “Rose, can you hear me?” Although she did not answer, Rose nodded. “You’re gonna be all right,” Lorena said. “Billie Jean’s gone to get the doctor. It don’t look like it hit anythin’ serious—just your shoulder.” They took her inside, where Wolf laid her gently down on Lorena’s bed. She stared up at them, trembling, unable to figure out what had happened. Lorena kept assuring her that she was going to be all right, but she was obviously in shock.

  Though it seemed an eternity, it was only a matter of minutes before Billie Jean returned with the doctor in tow. He soon confirmed what Lorena had told Rose over and over: she was going to be all right. “Nothing to worry about,” he assured her after he had dressed the wound. “The bullet went through clean as a whistle. You’ll be up and around in a couple of days.” Lorena paid him after he rejected her proposal to take his bill out in trade. Then she walked him to the door. Turning back to Rose then, she said, “See, I told you you’d be up and around in a day or so.”

  Perhaps the one more perplexed than the others was the man standing bewildered in the corner, watching the drama surrounding the girl he had just decided to spend the rest of his life with. How many more brothers were there to worry about? And if this was to be a never-ending line of avengers, was he wrong to subject Rose to such a life? It was Rose who eased his concern. Feeling stronger since the doctor reassured her, she was better able to talk about the incident, her fear having been quelled. When Wolf spoke of his concern for the other members of the family who still might be coming after him, she told him that there were no more. She was reluctant to remind Wolf of her prior life before she quit prostitution for good, but she thought it important to tell him that Boyd Dawson had told her that he was one of four brothers. “There aren’t any more,” she told him. “This doesn’t change anything, does it? We’re still going to your camp, aren’t we?” She didn’t know why, but she worried that he might have changed his mind.

  “Nothin’s changed,” he assured her, “but we’re gonna wait a couple of days till you’re in a little better shape to ride.” At peace then, she lay back and relaxed.

  Since Wolf had no love for the beehive that was Deadwood, it was a long couple of days for him before everyone decided it was all right for Rose to travel—including the doctor—but mostly the decision was made by Lorena. With her okay, they packed up Rose’s things on the horses again, and Billie Jean and Lorena stood in front of the saloon, along with Marvin Sloan, to watch their departure. As Lorena gave Rose a warm embrace, she slipped a small sack with several gold coins in her hand. “That’s just a little gettin’-started money,” she whispered. “Remember, if things don’t go the way you hope, I’ll always have a place for you.” She stepped back then, almost trampling on the feet of an elderly lady who had come to see what the parting was about. “I’m sorry, honey,” Lorena said. “I almost stomped your feet, didn’t I?”

  “No, no,” the lady replied. “I should oughta watch where I’m going. Is that a wedding party?”

  “You could say that, I guess,” Lorena replied.

  “The man in buckskins, is his name Wolf?”

  Lorena smiled. “That man is Mr. Thomas Logan,” she said. “And that respectable lady with him is Mrs. Rose Logan.”

  “Oh,” Mavis Dawson Taggart replied, removing her hand from the pistol in her skirt pocket. “Well, I hope they make it all right. Times are hard on families these days.” She turned and walked back up the street again.

  Please read on for an excerpt from

  the next exciting historical novel

  from Charles G. West,

  BLACK HORSE CREEK

  Available in December 2012 from Signet

  Billy Blanchard glanced up from his cards when the tall, thin stranger entered the dimly lit saloon. He was dressed in a dark suit weathered by countless hours in the saddle, his trousers tucked into a pair of knee-high boots. Even had his coat not been pulled open to reveal the badge on his vest, he was immediately identifiable as a deputy U.S. marshal. With no inclination to panic at the sudden appearance of the lawman, Billy glanced quickly again at the cards he held in his hand, a pair of sevens and a queen high. At least the unexpected arrival of the deputy hadn’t come when he had a winning hand. He placed the cards facedown on the table and announced calmly, “I fold.”

  The Choctaw blacksmith seated directly across from him grinned confidently, unaware of the stranger making his way directly toward the table. “Maybe this ain’t your day to play cards,” he chided. When he turned to the player seated to his left to see if he was going to call or fold, he realized that everyone’s attention was focused on something behind him. Looking back at Billy then, he saw the cocky smile spreading across the young man’s face that usually meant trouble for someone, so he quickly turned in his chair to discover the deputy marshal within several steps. He knew it was Billy the lawman was probably looking for, so he didn’t hesitate to
push his chair back and get out of the way.

  Deputy Marshal Thomas Malone took a cautious look at the three men playing cards with Billy, his hand resting on the handle of the Colt .44 holstered at his side. Abruptly leaving their chairs, the three joined the small crowd of spectators, obviously wanting no part in what was about to happen. Still, Billy sat smiling, with no apparent sense of alarm. “I’m fixin’ to take you back to Fort Smith, Billy,” Malone said. “That bank teller died, but not before he identified you as the person who shot him. So let me see your hands on the table before you get up, and we’ll make this as easy as we can.”

  Billy didn’t respond right away, continuing to sit calmly with his hands in his lap. “Deputy Thomas Malone,” he finally announced grandly. “I was wonderin’ if you’d be the one comin’ after me. That damn fool bank teller might still be alive if he hadda got down on the floor when I told him to.” His smile broadened when he saw Malone’s look of impatience. “I gotta give you credit, though. You got sand, walkin’ in here to arrest me, ’cause folks around this part of the river ain’t got much use for lawmen.” He continued to hesitate. “Besides, that teller was goin’ for a gun behind the counter. I shot him in self-defense.”

  “There weren’t no gun behind that counter,” Malone said. “You just flat-out murdered him.” His hand tightened on the handle of his Colt. “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Billy. Now let me see those hands on the table. We got a long ride back to Fort Smith.”

  “All right, Malone, you win. I don’t wanna cause no trouble. You want ’em on the table, here they are.” He brought them out from under the table, but one of them held a Smith & Wesson .44 revolver. The silence that had descended upon the tiny barroom was suddenly shattered by the harsh report of the handgun as Billy fired two shots into Malone’s gut. The surprised deputy staggered backward, grasping for a chair back or table to support him while he tried to draw his weapon from its holster. Another shot from Billy’s pistol struck him in the chest, and he crumpled to the floor.