by Ronald Kelly
“Never meant to by choice, Doc,” admitted the wolfer. “I just seem to run across these wounded critters on the trail every so often.”
Luke Bell chuckled weakly and fought against his dizziness, holding onto the Sharps rifle for support. “Very funny, Timber. Now why don’t you just keep your jokes to yourself and get me inside before I pass plumb out.”
The doctor’s wife held the door open as they carried the Negro inside the two story house. Soon, the three had made it to the examination room. Luke lay on the padded table, while Doc Barrett took a scalpel from a metal tray and began to cut away the matted fabric of the man’s bloodstained trousers.
Barrett grimaced at the wound just above Luke’s left knee and began probing. After a long moment of careful examination, the physician called to his wife. “I’ll need clean towels and a basin of hot water.”
“Am I gonna lose it, Doc?”
J.W. Barrett looked into the haggard face of the fugitive and smiled. “It’s a nasty wound, but no bones were hit and there’s no sign of blood poisoning. You’ll walk again, but with a limp most likely.”
Luke swallowed dryly and laid his head back on the table. He closed his eyes in total exhaustion and grew silent.
“You’re in good hands now, Luke,” Timber told him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll tend to the horses and then head down to the general store for a while.”
“You go ahead, Timber,” said the cowhand. “And I’d just like to say… well, I’m mighty obliged to you for getting me down off that mountain.”
“Rest up,” Gray told him. “I’ll be back directly and we’ll talk about what we discussed back in Wolf Gorge.”
Doctor Barrett accompanied the wolf hunter to the door and studied him as he slipped his dirty silverbelly hat over his graying head. “What in tarnation is going on here, Timber?” he asked. “That man’s got a load of buckshot in his leg and, from the spread of the pellets, I’d say from a sawed-off shotgun.”
“I won’t lie to you, Doc. It was bounty hunters. Luke Bell is wanted for the murder of Dan Spencer of Durango. He claims to be innocent of that crime and I believe him.”
The doctor removed his eyeglasses and absently cleaned them with a handkerchief. “Fixing up the fellow’s leg is one thing, Timber, but I’ll let you know up front, I won’t harbor a fugitive from the law.”
“And I don’t expect you to, Doc. When I get back, me and Luke are going to talk to Sheriff King. Luke is tired of running. He wants to turn himself in and take his chances at getting a fair shake.”
Barrett nodded solemnly. “All right, I’ll agree to that. Just wanted to let you know where I stood.”
Timber Gray walked down the snowy path to the hitching rail at the edge of the doctor’s yard. He took the gray roan and the two mules and started across the street to the livery stable.
The clouds that now hung over the mountains had dumped a light snow on Greybull the previous night. A fresh blanket topped the roofs of the town’s buildings and clung to the eaves of the covered walkways. It was now nearing evening and the town’s single street was already deeply rutted with the tracks of many a shod horse and buckboard wagon.
Able Jones pushed the double doors of the livery open as Gray came up.
After exchanging greetings, the wolfer stabled the animals. He unsaddled them, rubbed them down, then saw that they received their share of oats and water. Timber left his supplies lying on top of a stall fence and gathered up the wolf pelts, tying them together at the tails.
“See you only got four of them rascals, Timber,” said Able. He sat at the far end of the livery, his feet propped before the warmth of a potbelly stove and his eyes glued to the pages of a dog-eared dime novel. “What became of the others?”
“Got away… for now,” Gray replied.
“Forty-four wolves is danged good for one hunt,” the man told him. “Nobody would blame you if you wanted to leave it at that.”
“Nobody but myself.” Timber Gray took his Winchester from its boot, slung the wolf hides over his shoulder, and headed out the door.
He was heading down the boarded walkway to Haines Mercantile, when he came to the Cattleman Saloon. Glancing through the panes of the big window, he saw that the place was uncrowded and that the long mahogany bar was deserted except for the bartender. “A stiff shot of whiskey would go down good right about now,” he told himself and stepped inside.
The establishment was inviting, both in surroundings and in the warmth of the big iron woodstove in the corner. All the tables were empty, except for one where a poker game was taking place. The players looked up curiously as the wolfer closed the door behind him, then returned their eyes to the cards that had been dealt to them.
“Howdy, Timber,” greeted Sonny Dill, setting aside the beer mug he had been polishing. “Just come down from the mountain?”
“Yep,” said Gray. He laid the wolf pelts at the brass foot rail and removed his deerskin gloves, stuffing them into his coat pocket. “Bring me a bottle of rye and a glass. I need to burn this chill outta these old bones.”
“Coming right up,” said Sonny, turning to fetch the man’s request.
Timber had taken his first shot and was turning to glance out the front window, when his heart skipped a beat. There, riding across the timber bridge into town, were four very familiar horsemen. It looked as though Elijah Cox and his boys had escaped the crushing weight of the avalanche, or at least most of them. The Delaney brothers seemed to have caught the brunt of the snow slide. One of them lay across a saddle, wrapped in a woolen blanket, ready for the undertaker. The other was more fortunate. He had only suffered a broken arm and a few minor bruises.
The wolf hunter leaned against the bar and watched as they rode slowly into Greybull. Avery Gimble and the wounded Delaney stopped at Doc Barrett’s place and Timber knew there would be some trouble there. Luke still had the Sharps buffalo gun and his Remington pistol, but was he in any shape to use them against seasoned killers? Elijah Cox rode on down the street to Haines’ store, while Jess Ramsey made a beeline straight for the Cattleman Saloon.
Timber Gray turned back to his bottle and downed another shot of liquor. “Maybe you’d best get down to the other end of the bar, Sonny. I’m expecting some trouble.”
The barkeep looked out the window and saw the kid swinging down off his horse. “Good luck to you then,” he said and ambled down to the far end of the counter, away from the line of fire.
The wolfer laid his .45 on the bar and placed his left boot on the brass foot rail. He trained his eyes on the mirror behind the bar and watched the saloon door with grim expectation. The shuffling of cards had come to a halt. The men who had once been interested only in winnings were now attentive to the event that would take place within the next few minutes.
Timber Gray was not a gunfighter. He could handle firearms well, better than most men, but as far as showdowns and quick draws were concerned, he simply was not cut from the right cloth. He had killed only three men in his forty plus years; two during the War and one purely out of necessity. Today he would be going up against a kid with a reputation and a fancy, low-slung gun. A kid who had gunned down twelve men in two years, if the stories were to be believed. A short instant from now either one or both of them would lay, gunshot and bleeding, on the saloon’s sawdust floor. Timber could only pray that he would be the one left standing.
Ramsey had tied his mare to the hitching post and was approaching the saloon. Timber could hear the hollow drumming of his boots on the dirty boards of the sidewalk out front and the metallic clink of his fancy silver spurs. Timber glanced over at Sonny, then at the four gamblers. They all stared back at him, the tension in the air almost a living thing. Their eyes wished him luck, for they too had heard of Jess Ramsey. The wolfer turned his attention back to the bar mirror lined with liquor bottles. He laid his hand on the walnut handle of his short-barreled Colt.
The door opened and the kid came in. He was about to close it, when he noticed
the man standing at the bar. Jess stared hard at the wolfer’s back, suddenly recognizing the worn sheepskin coat and the silverbelly hat. A thin grin creased his lean face, but beyond the smile was a trace of nervousness.
He shifted the tail of his duster aside and slipped the thong off his pistol without giving it a second thought.
“Timber Gray!” he called out sharply, drawing the fancy silver .45 from its studded holster.
The wolf hunter turned and fired his own revolver. He was surprised to see the boy’s gun out and belching flame. So the tales are true, thought Gray amid the noise and smoke. He is fast and I’m dead.
But that was not the case. The bullet from Ramsey’s gun missed Timber by inches, splintering wood and cutting a long groove across the mahogany bartop. However, the wolfer’s shot rang true. Crimson blossomed in the center of the kid’s shirtfront as he stumbled backward. The fancy pistol flew from his fingers, knocking over a brass spittoon ten feet away.
The sulfurous pall of gunsmoke hung heavily in the room and, for a moment, the only sound heard was the fading echoes of the two shots. Timber Gray numbly holstered his gun and walked over to where the kid lay. Jess Ramsey had been dead before he hit the floor, killed by a perfect shot through the heart. His eyes stared dumbly up at his adversary, expressing a look of great bewilderment. At the moment of death his emotion had been one of utter disbelief, rather than fear.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” swore Sonny Dill. “I’d heard he was faster than that.”
“Just goes to show you what a lot of wild stories usually add up to in the end,” stated one of the poker players.
“Oh, he was fast, all right,” Timber told them. “I was just lucky, that’s all.”
“I’d best fetch the sheriff,” said Sonny. He shrugged on his coat and headed down the boardwalk toward the end of town.
Abruptly, two shots echoed from the direction of Doc Barrett’s house. The first was the thunderous report of the Sharps breechloader. The second was that of a revolver. Timber Gray fetched his rifle from where it leaned beside the bar, stepped over the kid’s dead body, and made his way onto the boarded walkway outside.
Avery Gimble was running down the street like Satan himself was prodding his rump with a pitchfork. The Sharps bellowed again and, this time, Gray spotted Luke Bell standing on the balcony of the house’s upper floor. The shot blew the hat plumb off the bountyman’s head, sending him scrambling down the street even faster.
Elijah Cox stepped out just as Gimble reached the general store. “Luke
Bell is down at the doctor’s place,” Avery gasped, trying to catch his breath. “Me and Ted walked in on him. Ted drew his gun, but Bell shot him with that big rifle. I chased him upstairs, but that dadblamed sawbones went for his scattergun, so I came for you.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Elijah said with a grin. He checked the loads in his ten gauge and closed the breech with a snap. “You go over to the saloon and fetch Jess. I heard some shooting a while ago, so he must be raising some hell over there.”
Timber stepped back into the saloon before either man could see him. Avery Gimble started across the rutted street to the Cattleman, while Cox sauntered confidently up the walkway toward the doctor’s home. The wolfer stepped behind the door, clutching the Winchester in both hands.
“Jess!” bellowed the big bounty hunter. “Get your skinny butt out here! Elijah need us over at the…”
Avery’s words caught in his throat as he stepped up on the boardwalk and saw the kid’s body lying there on the other side of the saloon doorway. He cursed softly, drew a Smith & Wesson .44 from his waistband, and stepped inside, ready to put lead to the one responsible.
Timber Gray wasn’t about to chance another gunfight. The first thing through the door was the .44 fisted in Avery’s big hand. The wolfer brought the barrel of his rifle down against the man’s hairy wrist with a forceful crack. The gun spun from Gimble’s hand and hit the floor with a thud. It went off with a roar, drilling a hole in a beer keg behind the bar.
“What in tarnation?” he growled, then stumbled back out the doorway as Timber swung his rifle around, splitting Gimble’s nose with the buttplate. The bounty hunter’s weight crashed through the hitching rail, splintering the heavy wooden beam. He landed hard in the street, lying on his back and shaking his head.
By the time Timber got out the door, Avery Gimble was already on his feet and fighting mad. The wolfer swung his rifle again, but Avery’s massive paw caught it before it struck. He wrenched the repeater plumb out of Timber’s hands and tossed it into the street.
“Now I’ve got you, wolf hunter!” growled Avery. His scarred face grew even uglier as he smiled in anticipation. “You’re gonna wish you’d stayed up there in Montana when I get finished with you!”
The big man was much quicker and stronger than Timber had first judged. A ham-like fist lashed out, hitting Gray square in the teeth, while the other grabbed hold of his shirtfront. Avery lifted the hunter completely off his feet and slammed him into an awning post. The force shook ice and snow from the eaves and a small avalanche landed atop Gimble’s head and shoulders. Timber was released, but the man shrugged off the snow and came for him again.
Timber laid a solid punch on Avery’s jaw, following it with an uppercut to his already injured nose. The bountyman yelped in pain. The blow didn’t seem to slow him down one bit. It just seemed to enrage him even more. He caught Timber in a crushing bearhug and lifted him into the air, tightening his brawny arms around the wolfer’s ribcage. A dull ache slowly turned into suffocating agony and Timber knew he couldn’t take much more. Using all the strength he could muster, he clapped his hands against Avery’s ears. Avery staggered off the edge of the walkway, dropping his foe as he clutched at his ringing ears. Timber slumped to the dirty, churned snow of the street. His lungs heaved for air as fiery pain throbbed in his sides.
“You need some help with that polecat, Timber?” called Trampus Haines from the porch of the general store. He already had his shirtsleeves rolled halfway up his skinny forearms.
“No,” rasped Timber hoarsely. He spat blood from a busted lip as Avery Gimble waded forward for another attack. “Let me end this on my own.”
“I’m gonna kill you, Gray!” swore Avery. He reached down to grab the wolf hunter, but Timber struck first. His boot kicked out and hit the big man squarely in the gut. Avery doubled over with a husky grunt. Then Timber came in close and began slugging. Again and again, his punches landed on mark; bruising flesh, bringing blood, and driving the bounty hunter out into the center of Greybull’s main street. Avery tried to land some blows of his own, but his big fists met nothing but air. After withstanding a dozen blows, the giant finally fell. His blood speckled the filthy slush of the street as he lay there beaten, unable and unwilling to finish the brawl he had started.
Timber himself looked and felt as if he’d been trampled by a stampede of Texas steers. He groaned as he stooped to pick up his hat and rifle, and figured he must have a couple of cracked ribs. He had gone up against a man twice his size and whipped him. Now all he had to worry about was the confrontation between Elijah Cox and Luke Bell.
Avery Gimble moaned feebly and attempted to get up. The toll of his injuries were too great, however, and he slumped back to the icy ground. “Keep an eye on this jackass for me, will you, Trampus?” asked Timber.
“I surely will,” agreed Haines. He stood close by, his eyes on the big fellow and his hand near his holstered gun.
Timber Gray worked the lever of his Winchester and found it undamaged. He glanced up the street toward the end of town. There was still no sign of Sonny Dill and the sheriff. With cold determination set on his battered face, Timber started up the street toward the two-story clapboard house of J.W. Barrett.
Elijah Cox stood at the gate of the doctor’s white picket fence. The lanky bounty hunter wore his knee-length greatcoat and dirty black slouch hat. The ugly length of the sawed-off shotgun was resting on one narrow sho
ulder. He stood there, his gold-studded grin broad and easy-going, but his eyes as dark and calculating as that of a rattler.
Luke Bell leaned weakly against the railing of the upper balcony. His dark face was tired and sickly, but his expression was one of angry defiance. The cowhand held Gray’s Sharps breechloader tightly, the forestock braced atop the ornate railing. The gaping muzzle yawned threateningly down at the grinning bountyman.
“I’m through running from you, Cox!” said Luke. “I’ve killed one of your boys already and I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you, too. Your best bet would be to get on your horse and light a shuck back to Colorado.”
Elijah laughed harshly. “And give up that thousand dollar bounty? I’ve killed white men for much less than that. You’ve been a tough one to corner, I’ll admit, but you ain’t no Wild Bill Hickock. You’re just a dumb nigger with more gun than you can handle. I’ll blow you clean off that porch before you can even fire that old buffalo gun.”
“I wouldn’t sell the man short if I was you, Cox,” warned Timber from the double doors of Jones’ livery. “He’s as tough as a rawhide lariat and hellfire mean when he’s riled.”
Elijah was startled by the sound of Gray’s voice. Perhaps he thought Jess or Avery had already taken care of the bearded wolfer back at the Cattleman Saloon. “You stay out of this, Gray!” he yelled over his shoulder. “After I’m through with Bell, it’ll be your turn!”
“No!” proclaimed Luke. His sunken eyes flashed angrily down at the bounty hunter. “It ends right here and now. Just between you and me.”
“That suits me just fine,” said Cox. With a grin, he brought the ten gauge down off his shoulder and fired without warning.
Luke stumbled back as the first load hit the porch post, riddling it with buckshot. The cowhand dropped to the balcony floor as the scattergun’s second barrel erupted in flame and burnt powder. An upstairs window caved inward under a hail of pellets, but none found their intended victim.