Timber Gray

by Ronald Kelly

  The wolf hunter pulled the fleeced collar of his sheepskin coat around his whiskered face and, with his .44-40 under his arm, started down the rocky ridge. As he neared the blazing fire, Timber could not help but feel spooked for some reason. Things had gone smoothly following the incident with the six wolves. According to his figuring, the pack must number close to thirty-two now, eighteen down from their original strength, but still a formidable bunch.

  Through the increasing snowfall, Timber and the greenhorn family had made their way through the winding foothills. By afternoon, they had happened upon an abandoned stage road and had followed its course westward until dark. Timber had hoped to reach Greybull by nightfall, but the increasing intensity of the snowstorm had forced them to stop and make camp.

  He walked silently down the steep hillside, ducking through pines and firs, their needled boughs heavy with mats of accumulated snow. The bright glow of the fire could be seen just ahead. As Timber made his way to the safety of the camp, he turned suspicious eyes toward the blackness beyond the sifting snow. The uneasy feeling simply would not desert him. Ever since they had left the hillside of Paul’s terrified run, the hunter had sensed the wolves just out of sight. He knew they were there in the dense woods at the side of the stage road, for he had been stalked before and knew the feeling. He would catch a quick flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he turned, there would only be empty forest. Still, he could feel their eyes upon him; angry eyes… hungry eyes, glaring at the man who had vowed to have their hides. He sensed those burning eyes now, as he reached the boundary of their roadside camp. He was not the only one. The mules and horses also seemed nervous, knowing that other animals were lurking nearby. Deadly animals.

  “Greybull is just over the rise there,” Timber told them as he passed the tethered horses and approached the warmth of the fire.

  Lenora Cook and her children sat huddled in blankets on one side of the blaze. Isaiah Cook was nowhere to be seen. The slight illumination of a coal oil lamp through the wagon’s canvas top told Timber that the reverend was probably meditating over the Gospels. The preacher had kept clear of them since the wolfer had nearly knocked his teeth down his throat earlier that day.

  “Here, have some coffee,” smiled Lenora, filling his tin mug with the steaming brew.

  Gray took a seat on a frosty boulder and gratefully accepted the hot cup. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

  “Tell us another story, Mr. Gray,” urged little Sarah.

  “Yeah,” said Paul, the boy’s face glowing with anticipation. “Tell us another story about the wolves.”

  Timber Gray had been spinning some yarns and tall tales earlier on in the evening, some about people he had met, some about the hunts he had been on since coming west. “I don’t know if I ought to,” he told them now. “Your ma here might not like me telling you such stories.”

  Lenora’s frown of disapproval melted into a soft smile. “Oh, maybe just one more. Then it’s off to bed with the both of you. We’ll be riding into town in the morning and I’ll not have a couple of sleepy-heads on my hands.”

  “Tell us!” piped the youngsters. “Tell us another one!”

  “All right,” agreed Timber, taking another sip from his mug and then balancing it on his knee. “Seems I once heard tell of a mountain man who lived in the Rockies some twenty years back. His name was Gabriel Bass and folks said he was a grizzly of a man with a long red beard and dressed all in buckskin. He carried a knife near as long as his leg and a muzzleloading Hawken with twenty brass studs on the stock, one for each injun he’d shot there in the mountains.

  “Well, now, one day ol’ Bass went hunting up in the Great Divide with a friend of his by the name of Mexicany Max. They’d gotten them a couple of big elk and were heading back for their cabin, when they looked around and what do you think they spotted? Why, it was a dozen timber wolves as hungry as could be! Bass cut an elk loose off his horse and they swallowed it whole, horns and all. But they were still hungry and licking their chops. Another mile passed, then he threw down the other elk and those wolves gulped that one down, too.

  “Ol’ Gabe Bass and Mexicany Max, they left their horses behind and made a run for it. Well, the wolves, they swallowed them horses and kept right on a-coming. Bass said to his partner that he’d rest and shoot a wolf and then run while Max was resting and shooting. So they did, going down the mountainside like that. Bass would shoot one and the wolf behind it would swallow it down. Then Max would shoot and another wolf would end up in its partner’s hungry belly.”

  Paul and Sarah gasped in bewilderment. Their mother shook her head and began cleaning up the supper dishes, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

  “It seems that they kept it up, loading and shooting, till they’d shot eleven of the varmints, all of which had been eaten by the one after it. Then

  Mexicany Max yelled “Good God Almighty, Gabe, look-a-there!” Ol’ Bass looked behind him and there, right on their tails, was the biggest danged wolf they’d ever laid eyeballs on. Why, he was as big as a buffalo!”

  “So what happened?” asked Paul urgently, not wanting to miss a single word.

  “Well, Gabriel Bass drew his old Arkansas toothpick, turned on the wolf, and stuck it in his belly. Then he cut it open and let them two horses out. After that, he and Max lashed the two elks back on the horses, skinned all twelve wolves, one outta the other, and rode on to the cabin like they’d first intended.”

  Paul Cook bought the tall tale for a moment more, then frowned in suspicion. “You’ve been funning us all along, haven’t you, Mr. Gray?”

  The wolfer replied with a hearty laugh and the two children reddened with embarrassment, feeling downright foolish. Lenora laughed also and Timber was startled by the gentle sound of her voice. He winked across the fire at her and was pleased when she returned his gesture with a warm smile.

  “All right, that’s enough for tonight,” said Lenora, herding her children off to bed. “Any more wolf stories and you’ll be having nightmares.”

  “Good night, Mr. Gray,” called Paul and Sarah as they climbed into the back of the wagon.

  “Sleep tight, young’uns,” the man replied. He lifted the coffee pot and poured the rest, grounds and all, into his tarnished cup. He heard the faint sounds of their prayers, then looked up to see Lenora Cook. She sat down across the fire from him.

  They sat in awkward silence for a time, then Timber broke it with a question he knew he really had no business asking. “Ma’am, you told me before that you intended to leave your husband when we reach Greybull. Are you still aiming to do that?”

  “After the way he acted this morning when those wolves were after Paul? I should say so, and we’ll all be better off for it.”

  Gray frowned and was suddenly aware of his concern for the woman. It had been a long time since the bearded hunter had felt that way toward a female. Not since Rebecca.

  “But what will you do?” he asked her. “Where will you go?”

  “Back to Minnesota, I suppose,” she told him. “I reckon I’ll find a job, perhaps in a dress shop. I used to be a pretty good seamstress before I married Isaiah. We’ll manage, the children and I. We’ll build us a new life, a new home.”

  They returned to their silence. Only the whistling of the wind and the crackle of the fire could be heard. Then Lenora stared at the bearded man for a long moment. “Mr. Gray… do you have a home to go to after all this is over?”

  Timber Gray felt a nagging sadness tug at his innards, but didn’t let it show. “My home is out here in the wilderness, ma’am. The mountains, the plains, the desert… any place I lay my head. Some folks say I live like the critters I hunt; on the move with no roots to tie me down.”

  “But no man should live in such a way,” said Lenora. “A man should have some loved ones, a family who can depend on him and make him feel wanted. Don’t you have any such kin, Mr. Gray?”

  “None that I know of since I left Tennessee.”


  “No wife?” persisted the woman. “No children to carry on their father’s name?”

  “No, ma’am,” replied the hunter, his voice strained with indifference. “Not anymore.”

  Lenora could see that the quiet man did not want to discuss his past and she did not bother to pursue it any further. With a tired sigh, she stood and turned toward the wagon. “I believe I’ll turn in now. We have much to do

  tomorrow.”

  Timber Gray nodded solemnly and fished the tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket. “You go ahead, ma’am. I’ll throw some more wood on the fire and turn in myself directly.”

  She walked a couple of steps, then stopped. “You know, you make me feel like an old maiden aunt calling me ma’am like that,” she smiled shyly. “You may call me Lenora, if you’d like.”

  Gray appreciated the thought. “I’d like that… Lenora. And you can just call me Timber from here on out.”

  Lenora Cook wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “Surely you weren’t born with such a name. What is your Christian name?”

  “It’s Jefferson,” he replied after a moment. “Haven’t used it in so long that I nearly forgot what it was.”

  “Well, good night, Jefferson.” Then she was in the wagon, away from the bite of the wind, if not the frigid cold itself.

  Timber Gray rolled himself a cigarette and smoked for a while, his mind in deep thought. He was a little peeved at himself for avoiding Lenora’s innocent questions and acting like a bitter shell of a man. He had wanted to tell her of his life; of the little log cabin in the Smokies. He had wanted to tell her of Rebecca and Todd and the day on Chestnut Creek when he had lost them both to the wolves.

  But then he would have had to tell her the rest of the story, too… of those horrifying days that followed. He wasn’t willing to do that just yet. How could he remove the bandages of his tortured soul when the wounds that lay beneath were still raw and unhealed, even after fifteen long years?

  The wolves. The damned wolves were always the cause of his painful memories, of his life’s suffering. But no matter how many of the beasts he managed to destroy, he knew there were plenty more to take their place. The sheer rage, the burning hatred he held for those timber-dwelling animals could never be quenched. Sometimes he felt like the hatred would grow until it consumed him entirely, leaving nothing but a blackened Stetson and a charred Sharps 50-caliber.

  He was throwing more wood on the fire, when the lonesome howling of a wolf pierced the frozen northern wind. Another joined in soon after, as well as a third. It wasn’t long before the entire forest was filled with the mournful sound of the pack. It obscured the rush of the approaching blizzard, reaching a frantic crescendo that pressed on Gray’s eardrums, threatening to drive him mad even as he stood there. Then it faded, wolf by wolf, until only the moaning of the gale remained.

  The hunter shivered in spite of himself, his gloved hands grasping the lean frame of the Winchester until they ached with the effort of holding onto it. He got the campfire blazing bright and hot before retiring to his handmade lean-to, and prayed to God that it would keep the marauders at bay… at least for the duration of the night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Timber Gray awoke in the middle of the night, a piercing scream slicing through his slumber like the edge of a well-honed knife. He threw off his blankets and grabbed for his rifle. The blued steel of the Winchester was crusted with ice. As he got to his feet, he realized that he, too, was covered with a light sprinkling of snow which had drifted into the far reaches of his hand-built shelter.

  Once again the scream sounded, its frightened tone growing into raw panic. At first, Timber thought that maybe Lenora had been right and the fireside yarns had conjured up some bad nightmares. But the emotion in these screams went much deeper than anything mere sleep could bring.

  He ducked out into the night and found himself in the middle of a blizzard. It had arrived an hour so ago, but he had been unaware of it. The hardship of their mountain travel must have unknowingly taken its toll on him, for he had slept through it, his senses lulled into the dangerous sleep of pure exhaustion.

  Timber rapped his rifle sharply against the trunk of a tree, knocking ice from the receiver and barrel. He worked the lever and started across the ankle-deep snow of the roadside clearing. The storm raged at a furious pitch. Snow was swirling through the darkness, falling fast and covering the frozen earth swiftly. The blazing campfire was nothing more than a pile of charred ashes now.

  The screaming was coming from the dark hull of the wagon and it was the terrified shrieking of a small child. “Miss Sarah,” he uttered beneath his frosty breath. As he started forward, he heard an evil snarling accompany the girl’s screams. The hungry snaps of a large timber wolf.

  Lenora Cook’s cries joined those of her daughter and Timber suddenly saw the wolf, its rear haunches protruding over the tailgate of the wagon. The wolfer raised his gun, but the beast lurched backwards out of the buckboard before he could get off a shot. Timber Gray froze for a moment, his heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. The wolf hit the snowy ground, dragging Sarah with it. Slavering jaws clamped down firmly on the child’s left arm, biting deeply and drawing blood.

  Another timber wolf appeared out of the swirling snowfall. It loped toward the struggling pair, its eyes sparkling with bloodlust. Its jaws yawned open, intending to tear into the girl’s other arm. An unpleasant memory flashed through Gray’s mind then; his boy, Todd, at the mercy of two wolves’ hellish game of tug-o-war. But not this time! With a curse on his lips, the hunter leveled the Winchester and stopped the oncoming wolf. A slug caught it squarely in the chest, splitting the plate of its breastbone. The bullet tunneled through the wolf’s vitals, tearing through heart and belly, and dropping it in its tracks.

  Another shot ended it for the wolf that had hold of Sarah. The rifle cracked. A .44 bullet slammed forcefully into the wolf’s temple, spraying brain and splinters of bone into the snow beyond. But, in its death, the wolf’s jaws held firm. Timber ran, drawing his Colt as he did. Placing the short barrel of the .45 to the animal’s jawbone, he fired twice. The beast’s mouth grew slack and Lenora Cook was suddenly there, pulling her daughter’s arm free.

  Three more wolves sprang from the storm, running from the darkness beyond Timber’s lean-to. With the Winchester in one gloved hand and the Colt in the other, he took aim and fired without thinking. Two of the beasts skidded face-down, leaving bloody smears in the fresh snow. The third wolf paid no heed to its fallen brethren. It continued toward the hunter and leaped with a guttural snarl.

  Timber lifted his pistol and thumbed back the hammer. The shot caught the wolf in midair, punching through the end of its snout. The slug burrowed into its brain, killing it instantly. The animal spun, head over tail, with the impact, then landed on its back in the snow, no more than six feet from where the wolf hunter stood.

  “She’s bleeding badly!” said Lenora behind him, but he didn’t turn around. There was a commotion going on in a grove of dense firs, where the four mule team was tethered.

  Isaiah Cook climbed down from the front of the wagon as Timber walked past, poking the tails of his nightshirt into the top of his britches. “Here,” Gray said sternly, tossing the rifle to the young minister. “I’m taking a look in the hollow. If a wolf comes within fifty feet of this wagon, shoot it. Understand me?”

  The reverend nodded and took the rifle readily enough. Gray had almost expected a long-winded sermon about the handling of the devil’s tool, but Cook remained mercifully silent. Isaiah buttoned his trousers and, Winchester in hand, headed back to where his wife and daughter knelt in the deepening snow.

  Timber stopped long enough to pull the Sharps breechloader from its saddle boot and reload the Colt with fresh cartridges. Then he stepped over the iron tongue of the prairie schooner and started off into the trees.

  Three of the rawboned mules were to one side of the grove, snorting and cringing in fear, their nostrils flaring with the
heavy scent of wolf. The fourth mule was already near death. It twisted and bucked, but its tether held strong, tied to the trunk of a birch tree. Timber sucked in his breath as he ran down into the rocky hollow and saw the predicament the Missouri breed was in.

  Wolves covered the animal, seven of them in all. Two clung to the mule’s bucking back, while the others darted around and bit at her kicking legs, which were bloody and nearly shred clean of their hide. The mule was a victim of pure hunger, while the little girl, for the most part, had been attacked simply for the lust of wanting something to kill.

  Timber dropped to one knee and steadied the big buffalo gun. The octagon barrel boomed with the sound of a cannon as the wolfer eased back on the trigger. A wolf fell from the mule’s swayed back, most of its head blown asunder. Quickly, Timber opened the smoking breech, inserted a fresh cartridge, and closed the block. The second shot caved in a she-wolf’s ribcage, spinning her off into the swirling darkness of the storm.

  A wolf with a coat streaked with black turned from its prey and bounded toward the rifleman. Timber had no time to reload. He brought up his .45 and dropped the wolf with a single shot. More of the Colt’s rounds kicked up snow near the dying mule. Having had enough for the time being, the other four scurried off into the blackness of the forest, away from the range of Gray’s guns.

  The bloody mule staggered for a moment, then fell on its side, breathing raggedly. Timber found that he had one round left in his pistol and he used it wisely, putting the animal out of its misery. He then untied the other mules and led them back up the hollow to the wagon.

  He tethered them to the seat of the wagon and hurried to the rear. All four of the Cook family were there. Little Sarah cried hysterically while her mother attempted to examine the nasty wound by the light of a lantern. Paul Cook and his father stood there silently, their faces pale. Suddenly, a cold dread filled the hunter and he knelt beside the four-year-old, tossing his Sharps aside and holstering the forty-five.