by Ronald Kelly
Timber nodded in complete understanding. As he had ridden to the Whittaker ranch with the two cowhands, the wolfer had wondered if the Colonel wanted the wolves tracked for the purely economical reason of saving a few cows. Most cattlemen did. But it turned out that Whittaker’s motive was more honorable than selfish. Like most men who dealt with the cattle business, Timber Gray also despised the wolves that preyed upon the helpless to feed the strong, even though it was the way of nature. The wolfer was much more involved when human victims were at stake. It was the burning memory of what had happened beside that mountain stream in 1865 that drove Gray to kill every wolf he came in contact with, whether hired to do so or not.
“You know there’s a mighty bad storm heading in from the north,” pointed out Timber. “If I was to start out after those wolves today, that blizzard would catch up with me before I could even get a third of the job done.”
Whittaker took a money roll big enough to choke a Missouri mule from out of his coat pocket. “I know that. That’s why I’ll offer you an even thousand dollars in cash money right here and now. Also, I’ll throw in a couple of good horses and any supplies you might need. Does that sound fair enough?”
“Sure it does, Colonel. Normally I’d jump at such an offer. But, still, I’m gonna have to say no.” Timber’s thoughts were lingering on dangers other than that snowstorm. Again, he recalled the nightmare, remembered the way it served as an omen for hard times ahead. The last time he had the dream, a grizzly bear had nearly mauled him to death in the Rockies. This time his shortsightedness could mean being torn to shreds by timber wolves in the frozen wilds of southwestern Montana.
Whittaker could see the reluctance in the hunter’s eyes. He poured himself another shot of the fancy French liquor and took a long, thoughtful sip. "All right, I’m willing to sweeten the pot a bit. In addition to the thousand dollars, I’ll pay you twenty dollars for each wolf hide you bring back to me. No cattleman west of Kansas City is going to offer you a deal like that.”
The wolfer knew that he was right. The going bounty on wolf hides at that time was five dollars apiece. Whittaker was offering a tempting profit of fifteen dollars per hide. And with a pack numbering close to fifty, that was pretty hard to pass up, storm or no storm.
“That would come to quite a piece of money, Colonel.”
“Yes, it would. Enough to last you through quite a few winters.” Whittaker leaned forward in his chair, anxious to learn his friend’s decision.
“So, what will it be, Jefferson? Will you do this job for me?”
Timber stood and pulled on his hat. “Does those supplies include a new set of guns and ammunition? My old Colt and Winchester are mighty worn after all the use I’ve put them through in the last few years.”
“Of course,” assured the one-armed man. “And I’ll even throw in some cartridges for that Sharps buffalo gun you’ve got hanging on your saddle.”
“Then I reckon you’ve got yourself a deal,” said Timber Gray.
He and Whittaker shook hands to consummate the deal and the cattle baron accompanied him down the hall to the front door. “Bill and Seth, they’ll let you pick the horses and whatever gear you need. Then I’ll have one of them ride out with you to my SpruceValley line station. That’s the direction those wolves were heading this morning. I’ve got several thousand head down in the valley there and I’d bet my best pair of Sunday boots that is where they’ll attack next.”
After another warm handshake, Timber Gray left the company of the old man. He crossed the rutted ranchyard to the bunkhouse. He lingered beside his horse for a moment before going inside to the toasty warmth of a potbelly stove. He breathed in the aroma of cold horse and aged leather as he stood beside the animal, letting his gloved hand rest absently on the jutting stock of the old Sharps. Abruptly, a cold northern wind blew across the plains. It engulfed him, rustling his clothing and numbing the exposed skin of his face.
Casting the butt of his cigarette aside, he turned and walked up the steps to the bunkhouse door. Behind him, the wind seemed to howl a mournful warning, as if cautioning him of dangers that lay ahead.
It was a sound he had heard often, but one he rarely listened to. A warning that eluded the stubborn wolfer until it was entirely too late to take heed.
Chapter Six
The ride to SpruceValley took the remainder of the day. After leaving the main acreage of the Whittaker ranch with its sparse buildings and cattle-filled corrals, the land gave way to the abandonment of the still Montana plains. The grasslands were plentiful near the muddy vein of the Powder River , then turned into more rugged terrain as they stretched further southwest toward the valley cache of cattle that the wolf pack was most likely to strike next.
Timber Gray urged his black gelding across the barren Montana earth. His guide, Seth Adams, rode close beside him. Gray had felt a little uneasy upon leaving MilesCity, but now, riding the open plains with the bite of the January wind on his face, he once again felt in control. This was his place in life, be it Montana flatland or Colorado highland. In the wilderness there were only the elements of nature to contend with. No slick-handed poker players, no gun-happy drunkards… just he and his prey. Timber was a man leery of crowds and, although MilesCity wasn’t as big a town as many, he knew he would have probably packed his saddlebags and left in a day or so anyway, snow or no snow.
The wolfer was feeling particularly well that day, most of that wellbeing due to the generosity of Louis Whittaker. Timber had a thousand dollars in his possession, with the promise of that much more at the end of the hunt. Behind him followed two sturdy pack horses loaded with a month’s worth of supplies. His old short-barreled Colt had been replaced with a spanking new .45 and the boot on the right side of his saddle sported a fresh Winchester .44-40. His saddlebags were stocked with spare ammunition, including cartridges for his .50 Sharps long gun.
From early afternoon until the gradual darkening of evening, the ride had been laden with silence. But as the miles lessened between them and their destination, so did the extent of their private thoughts. Seth began to tell the elder man of his family back on the Texas Panhandle. He told Gray of his pa’s ranch near Amarillo, of his ma and three sisters. And there were two older brothers; one of them a marshal in the Arizona territory, the other a no-account horse thief who had been rightfully hung in Kansas back in 1877.
Timber Gray didn’t mind the boy’s rambling talk. In his travels, the wolfer had met many people, but had made few friends. Here, on the lonely ride to SpruceValley, he had begun to take a liking to this Texas-born cowhand named Seth Adams. But the friendship seemed to be linked to a darker side of the wolf hunter. Seth reminded him of the man little Todd might have become if he had survived that horrible day in the wilds of the SmokyMountains.
The clouds that boiled overhead grew darker and denser, bringing twilight earlier than usual. They crested a rise and saw the vast expanse of the valley below them. Whittaker’s estimate of the cattle had been correct. It looked as though several thousand head grazed on the rolling pastures of brown grass. The Tongue River ran along the western side of the valley, while to the southwest stood a thick forest of pine and blue spruce. On the edge of that forest was a small cabin; the line station Whittaker had told Gray about earlier.
Their destination finally in sight, they made their way through the herd toward the inviting glow of a kerosene lamp and the acrid aroma of woodsmoke. The one-roomed cabin was constructed of roughly hewn logs chinked with mud and sod. To the side was an overhang where tools and harnesses hung, as well as a few hay-littered stalls for the horses.
The two riders reached the shelter and tied their horses in a couple of stalls, removing their weapons and saddlebags. They were in the process of unsaddling their mounts, when the door opened and two men stepped gingerly into the chill of the winter twilight.
“How you been doing, Seth?” greeted a lanky man with a handlebar mustache. He shook the boy’s hand, then eyed Timber Gray with good-
natured interest.
“Well enough, Tom,” replied Seth. “That is, up until today, I reckon.”
“Yah, we heard of poor Charlie,” said the other man, his voice heavy with the accent of a foreign land. He was a huge man and his hair and beard was long and golden blond, reminding Timber of the Vikings of ancient Norway that his father had told him stories about during his childhood.
Tom nodded grimly. “Ralph Walker rode out and told us about it. Terrible thing what happened to Charlie. But, dammit, I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. Confounded wolves!”
“That’s why we’re here. This is the man the boss hired to hunt down that murdering pack. And believe you me, he hired the best.”
Tom studied the wolfer carefully in the light of the open doorway. His grin broadened slightly. “You’re Timber Gray, ain’t you?”
The hunter hoisted his gelding’s saddle off its back and set it on the railing of the stall fence. “That’s right.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” The lanky cowhand stepped forward and shook Gray’s hand. It seemed as though the wolfer had traded more handshakes that day than he had in the last few years. “I’m Tom McCorkendale and this hefty fella here is Big Swede.”
After unburdening the two pack horses, the four retired to the warmth of the line station. The cabin’s interior was lit by a single coal oil lamp and the flickering glow of a stone hearth. The walls were covered with yellowed newspaper and pages from old mail-order catalogs, insulating the cabin’s occupants from the chilly drafts of late January. Why, thought Timber, a man could read to his heart’s content all winter long and never come across the same wall twice.
“Hope you boys are hungry,” said Tom. “Swede’s cooking up a mess of venison and beans, and we’ve got plenty of hot coffee to wash it down with.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard tell of the Swede’s coffee,” said Seth with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “They say you can float a blacksmith’s anvil in that stuff.”
Big Swede waved his camp knife at the boy, a look of disapproval on his massive face. “Watch your tongue, youngster, or it could very well end up cooking in this pot of beans.”
“I almost believe he means it, Seth,” laughed McCorkendale. “Lately, old Swede’s been pretty cantankerous. I do believe he’s got a touch of the cabin fever.”
“Bah!” growled the big man, turning back to the preparation of the meal.
Timber Gray dumped his gear in a far corner, then shed his coat and hat. “I reckon you fellas haven’t seen any sign of that wolf pack, have you?”
“Not yet,” replied Big Swede as he stooped over his kettle. “But they are near.”
“How do you know that?”
The bearded man shrugged. “It is a feeling I have. When I was a child in my native Sweden, I felt the nearness of wolves. I knew when they prowled the forest outside our village and I was always right. Do not ask me to explain it, for I cannot.”
“In that case, I think we ought to ride herd,” suggested Tom. “At least until they decide to make their move.”
“Good idea.” Timber accepted a mug of steaming coffee from the big cook. “I’ll be glad to ride a shift, if necessary.”
“No need for that. Rest up. You’re gonna need all your strength when you go after them. Me and Seth, we’ll ride tonight. I’ll take the first shift, Seth the second. Four hours each.”
“Sounds fine to me,” said the young cowhand. He sat on a bunk, his rifle resting across his knees.
“Eat it while it’s hot,” said Big Swede as he set a simmering cauldron of beans in the center of a sturdy plank table. They all pulled up the benches and hungrily sat down to the modest feast at hand.
Chapter Seven
There was no moon to speak of that night. If there was one, it was well hidden by the black fleece of stormclouds that moved in, slowly but surely, from the north. The pastureland of SpruceValley was dark, the surrounding stands of timber even darker. The only sounds to be heard were the sounds natural to any Montana cow camp; the soft milling of cattle, the rush of the nearby Tongue River , and the mournfully cold howl of the winter wind.
Tom McCorkendale’s watch had ended two hours ago. It was now Seth Adams’ turn to keep vigil. The young cowhand rode a steady circle around the big herd, engulfed in a thick blanket of dense darkness. One of his gloved hands was fisted around the Winchester that laid ready across his lap, while the other held steady to the reigns of the bay.
Seth Adams had ridden herd many a time in the dead of winter. Comfort was rare on the cattle plains, whether it be in Montana or the Panhandle. It was no different on the vast expanse of the Whittaker spread. Seth had been born of a hard Texas family, accustomed to trouble and responsibility. He had never minded riding winter herd… until tonight. He couldn’t account for his sudden uneasiness and that bothered him. Perhaps it was the inky darkness and the chill wind that heightened his senses, tightening his nerves to their straining point. That and the danger of the wolves that very well might be lurking, hidden from view, in the black timber of the surrounding forest.
He urged his horse onward, heading along the western side of the valley. When he had relieved McCorkendale earlier, the veteran hand had told him that everything looked calm enough. The cattle seemed easy and unconcerned, where they would have been skittish if the wild scent of wolf had been pungent enough to reach them on the gusts of the winter wind.
The cowboy was beginning to think that the wolves had passed them by, when he sensed that something was wrong. Up ahead the cattle were becoming restless. The slow milling had turned into a steady surge toward the center of the valley, as if the cows closest to the wooded boundary were attempting to keep their distance from some menace.
The cattle’s exodus made Seth urge his horse into a trot. His heart began to beat faster as his own mount began to shy away with nervous excitement. He squinted into the darkness beyond the few remaining cows at that end of the pasture, desperately trying to search out the cause of the animals’ sudden agitation.
Then, through the sweeping rush of the night wind, he heard the howling of wolves. The mournful sound had always sent shivers down Seth’s spine, but the wailing he heard now increased that feeling a hundred-fold. It began with the call of one wolf, was joined by four more, then a dozen. Suddenly, the howling filled the basin of Spruce Valley, seeming to encompass it on all sides. Seth’s horse bucked and turned, its eyes wild with panic.
“Easy, boy,” whispered Seth, leaning forward in his saddle and running a comforting hand along the side of the bay’s broad neck. “We’ll get outta this in one piece. Don’t you worry none.”
But the horse was more concerned with the wolf scent in its nostrils than the soft words of its rider. It twisted suddenly toward the direction of the fleeing cows. At that moment, Seth caught a glimpse of a lone steer running toward the river, bellowing loudly in fear. Two pale forms, long and low to the ground, flashed through the darkness in hot pursuit. Two hungry wolves swiftly gaining on their prey.
Seth brought the Winchester to his shoulder, levering a cartridge into the breech and sighting carefully down the barrel. When he had drawn a bead on the wolf nearest the cow, he squeezed off a shot. The bullet found its mark. The timber wolf tumbled, snoot over tail, a .44 slug buried deep in the back of its skull. The other wolf leapt over its fallen sibling and continued on. Seth was about to fire again, when his bay began to buck beneath him in throes of panic, fear, and pain.
There was a wolf at the horse’s hindquarters, its fangs flashing, tearing at the flesh of the bay’s ankles. Seth twisted awkwardly, trying to take aim on the wolf. But before he could fire, the gelding reared and he went spinning from the saddle. The cowhand hit the frozen ground hard. With a groan, he picked himself up, shaking off dizziness and trying to regain his lost breath. He saw his horse galloping off into the night with the wolf still ripping savagely at his legs. Seth could have gotten a quick shot off, but he found his hands empty. He had lost the Winchester
during his fall and had no idea where it was.
“Dammit!” declared the boy. “I ain’t gonna end up like Charlie did!” He slipped the thong off the hammer of his Colt and drew the revolver from its holster.
All of the cattle had shifted toward the middle of the valley and Seth found himself alone on the grassy plain. Darkness surrounded him on all sides, combined with the unnerving sounds of bawling cows and the rushing waters of the Tongue. The howling had let off until only a few wolves continued the cry.
Abruptly, guttural growls erupted to Seth’s right and he swung his .45 in that direction. The pale gray flash of a thickly-furred form lurched out of the blackness. For a split second, Seth could see the wolf’s face, furious and hungry, its eyes sparkling like silver coins, its teeth bared. The beast leapt just as the cowpoke thumbed back the hammer and leveled the Colt’s barrel. The report of the gun was deafening. The wolf kept coming and, at first, Seth was certain that he had missed his mark. He yelled out in alarm and stumbled backwards. The canine hit the earth rolling, however, and stopped in a quivering heap, most of its face blown away.
Seth pulled his eyes from the dead wolf and directed them toward the night once again. Two more wolves came toward him cautiously, but still driven by the same bloodlust possessed by their fallen brother.
“Come on!” he yelled in defiance. “Come on, you filthy critters! I’m ready for you!” His hand trembled as he steadied his pistol.
The wolves rushed forward, advancing as one. Seth was about to fire, but he never pulled the trigger. There was a deep-throated growl close behind him and, before he could even turn, he felt the heat of a wolf’s breath prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.