• • •
He had no way to be sure, but he guessed that it was probably a three-day ride to the North Laramie and Lem Dawson’s trading post. When he left Laramie City, he rode until darkness forced him to stop for the night. He was grateful for a letup in the snow clouds and the lack of additional precipitation during the rest of that day as he followed the river on its winding journey into the mountains. Sitting by the fire at the end of the day, he decided that because of the winding course of the river, it was going to take him longer than the time he originally estimated to get to the North Laramie. He was afraid he had made a mistake in leaving his packhorse in Cheyenne. But he had his rifle and plenty of cartridges, so he could hunt when his supplies ran out, and he had seen plenty of signs of game along the river. He could go on indefinitely—and he would, if that’s what it took.
On the second day, he came across hoofprints coming from a ravine to intercept the path he was riding. When he dismounted to study them, he found they were unshod—Indian ponies. They continued along in the same direction he was riding. He was forced to be even more cautious now. Maybe, he thought, if he was lucky, they would turn away from the river somewhere up ahead. But they held to the same course. When he stopped in the middle of the day to rest Joe, he took the opportunity to study the tracks again, this time more closely. Suddenly he realized that one of the prints he found was from a shod horse, and he went back along the trail searching more closely still. There was another shod print, then another. He stood up and stared up the river before him while he considered the possibilities. There were only two: The Indians had one shod horse, or the tracks were not made at the same time, which meant the Indians were following a rider on a shod horse.
It made sense! He constructed the picture in his mind. A party of Indians, four by his estimation, had spotted one lone rider from the hills above the river. They came down the ravine he had passed to get on the rider’s trail. How could he explain the fact that there were no tracks of any horses before the ravine? He thought back, trying to remember the scene. There was a small island in the middle of the river just before he reached the ravine—a good place to ford the river. It was Sanchez the Indians were following—he was sure of it—and he had been on the other side of the river to that point. Then he crossed over to this side, and that was why tracks suddenly appeared where there were no tracks before.
What he did not know was how far behind them he trailed. When his horse was rested, he started out again but suddenly heard gunshots some distance up ahead of him. They were rifle shots by the sound of them and there was an initial burst of three shots, followed shortly after by three more. It was hard to say how far ahead. He looked up at the sky. The sun was already settling down upon the mountaintops. It would be dark in a couple of hours. He urged Joe onward at a faster but cautious pace, afraid to push him too hard for the roughness of the trail.
He became more anxious as he continued along the narrow path by the river and the sun dropped lower, casting long shadows across the water from the ridges on the western side. He had to become concerned now about riding into an ambush. There had been no more rifle shots, so there was no way to judge if he was getting closer or not. Suddenly Joe reared as a horse loped down the path toward them. Cole grabbed his rifle from the saddle sling, ready to fire, but discovered the horse was riderless. It was an Indian pony, and it slowed only slightly as it ran on past them. Cole, fully alert now, urged Joe forward again, searching the trail before him. Approaching a sharp bend in the river, he came upon another Indian pony standing a short distance from the trail. It was also without a rider.
Feeling that he must be getting close, he dismounted, realizing he might be an inviting target sitting high in the saddle, even though the light was rapidly fading. Moving cautiously around the bend of the river, he came upon the bodies. Reacting immediately, he dropped to one knee, quickly scanning each bank of the river and the narrow canyon ahead, ready to shoot at the first sign of movement. There was no one in sight other than the dead. Four bodies lay in the snow, and the picture of what had occurred was not difficult to imagine. Sanchez must have been aware that the Indians were stalking him, so he led them into an ambush, and the hunted became the hunter. He led them across a treeless opening, waiting for them in a gully or ravine. When they were halfway across the open space, he laid down a blanket of fire, killing two of them before they knew they were walking into a trap. This seemed likely judging by where two of the bodies lay. The other two Indians looked as if they had been shot as they attempted to run away, for they were some distance from the other warriors, probably shot in the back, Cole surmised. It appeared that the Indians were armed only with bows.
He scanned the walls of the canyon before him in an effort to guess exactly where Sanchez had lain in wait for his latest victims. It was difficult to guess, for there looked to be many suitable places in the high rock walls and narrow gullies. Four more bodies to be attributed to the brutal murderer, Cole thought, and knew that he had to be stopped. Not sure if Sanchez was still watching the clearing, he decided it too dangerous to enter it to pick up the outlaw’s trail. So he decided to backtrack a short distance and ride down along the bank of the river where the bushes were thick until he was past the far edge of the clearing.
Coming up on the other side of the killing field, he waited until the last rays of the sun had shrouded the valley in a dusky twilight before climbing up to the path again. There was still enough light to see the single set of tracks, left by a shod horse, and they continued on toward the steep walls of the canyon. Cole paused to look beyond him, his eyes following the trail into the darkness of the canyon where the steep walls blocked out the last fading rays of daylight. He could almost feel the evil butcher’s presence permeating the narrow river valley, and he sensed a fatal reckoning after so long a search.
Even in the dying light, the tracks he saw were sharp and perfectly shaped in the snow, telling him that they were recently formed. Sanchez was near. He was sure of it. As he continued to stare at the canyon passage, he had to question the sanity of following the tracks into that dark void. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. But he told himself that it was very unlikely Sanchez had any notion that he was being tracked by anyone after he had dealt with the Indians.
The odds were in his favor, he reasoned, knowing that even if they weren’t, he was still going into the canyon. He would not permit Sanchez to get away, now that he was so close to finishing the job he had sworn to do. Although five of the six men who had raped and murdered his wife and her family were dead, the one surviving savage had grown to symbolize the entire evil deed. And the deaths of the five before him would not pay for the tragedy as long as one remained alive. He took Joe’s reins in his hand and started walking into the canyon.
Halfway through the dark passage, he realized more than ever that he was at the mercy of anyone waiting to ambush him. But so far, he was still on his feet as the canyon turned abruptly, revealing the end of the narrow gorge. Anxious to escape the confines of the steep walls, he increased his pace to a trot, leading his horse to the open end, where he stopped as soon as he found light enough to examine the tracks again. There were now boot prints along with the hoofprints. Sanchez had dismounted for some reason and from that point was evidently leading his horse. Cole didn’t trouble himself with the reason, but it would seem likely that Sanchez would be making camp sometime soon. Cole looked at the terrain ahead and guessed that the site he would pick would be somewhere in the trees that covered the foot of a slope that led down to the river. Taking up the trail again, he had started to climb back up into the saddle when a glimmer of something shiny caught his eye. He stopped to examine it more closely. It was blood.
Sanchez is still bleeding!
So Ace Moyer had wounded him. The discovery made him hurry even more.
• • •
Another one? Sanchez questioned. He was sure there had been no more than
four, but there was now one lone figure that just emerged from the canyon and was following his trail.
Well, we’ll give him the same medicine the other four got, he thought, and looked around him to pick his spot.
He had dismounted when his leg felt as if it was getting numb, thinking that maybe he should try walking in hopes of keeping it from going stiff on him. It had only resulted in starting the bleeding again.
Damn the luck, he thought. I wonder if there’s any more of them behind me. His only thought now was to reach Lem Dawson’s place. Lem should be able to get the bullet out of his leg. He wouldn’t be the first outlaw Lem had operated on.
The mouth of a ravine just ahead of him looked to be a handy spot to take care of the Indian still tracking him. He led his horse up the ravine a little way to get it out of sight. Then he limped back to the lower end of the ravine and lay down on the snow-covered lip with his carbine ready to fire. It would be an easy shot, he thought.
The damn fool must think it’s too dark to see him out in the open like that. Waiting for his target to get a little closer, so that he couldn’t miss, he suddenly realized that it was not an Indian, but a white man. His first thought was that it was Big Steve Long, still trying to get his hundred dollars back. The man was hard to identify, but he was a sizable man like Big Steve. He couldn’t help smiling at that.
I think I’ll let him get a little bit closer so I can see the look on his face just before I send him to hell. Thinking to find a better place, one that would bring his victim within point-blank range, he picked a spot on the other lip of the ravine. Then he led his horse farther up the ravine before coming back to take his position on the lip. If Big Steve followed the bay’s tracks, as Sanchez figured, he would pass within ten yards of the ambush waiting down the slope, just over the ravine’s lip.
It was the kind of setup Sanchez enjoyed. He could witness the stark terror in his victim’s face the moment he realized he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it. An evil grin spread across Sanchez’s face as his unsuspecting target drew nearer. Lying in the shadow of a large pine, Sanchez slowly raised the muzzle of his carbine and set the front sight on the spot where he planned to pull the trigger. The man stopped at the foot of the ravine to look up toward the top. Sanchez jerked his head back in surprise. It was not Big Steve, but his face was familiar. It struck him then. The man stalking him now was the vengeful hunter who had doggedly come after him and the others!
But now he has made his first mistake when he has conveniently walked squarely into my gun sight, Sanchez thought.
This was even better than killing Big Steve Long. Sanchez had an almost overpowering urge to roar out his laughter for the quirk of fate that brought his demon to present himself to be killed. But not wishing to chance a foul-up, he maintained his patience until Cole was directly in front of him at point-blank range.
Now! Sanchez told himself, and rested his finger on the trigger. He started to squeeze it when he was suddenly startled by the low guttural growl of a wolf only a few feet behind him. Without thinking, he automatically spun around to defend himself.
• • •
There was no time to think when he heard the growl of the wolf. Cole immediately dropped to one knee and swung his rifle around to bear on the dark form that suddenly separated itself from the shadow of a large pine. Two quick rounds from the Henry rifle found their mark, and the wolf slumped lifeless on the snow-covered slope.
Alarmed now that he had forfeited any advantage of surprise he might have had, he scrambled back to take cover behind a rock at the bottom of the ravine and waited for Sanchez to react. He surely knew he was being stalked now. He watched the dark ravine above him carefully, wondering if Sanchez had already ridden out at the other end, or if he had picked that spot to camp and was now there watching him from farther up the ravine. Maybe he had been too quick and not thinking when he automatically shot the wolf, but it had been too close to wait. Something had attracted it. Possibly it had caught the scent of blood, since Sanchez was leaving a trail of it in the snow.
Time crawled slowly by with still no response of any kind from the upper part of the ravine. Then suddenly a large dark form emerged from the shadows above him, coming down the center of the ravine. Ready to fire, Cole checked himself when he realized that it was a horse, but the saddle was empty. Some kind of trick? he wondered, and remained ready to shoot. The horse walked slowly past him. He continued to wait, but there was still no response to his rifle shots. He turned then to stare at the dark lump lying just below the rim of the ravine. Maybe it wasn’t the wolf he had shot. Maybe it was something else. No longer concerned with an attack from the upper part of the ravine, for he was suddenly certain, he ran across to the other side.
What had just occurred to him was, in fact, what had actually happened. It was not a wolf. He stood staring down at the body of Jose Sanchez. Two bullet holes were neatly placed, one in the chest, and one in the throat. For a brief moment, the low clouds opened a window for the moon to shine down on the mask of shocked anger frozen on the wanton butcher’s face. Cole turned to look at the spot where he had been when he heard the wolf growl. It was no more than thirty feet from where he now stood. Had Sanchez pulled the trigger, he could not have missed. The wolf had saved his life. With that thought, he looked quickly around him, thinking the wolf might still be planning to strike, but there was no sign of the vicious predator. Most likely the rifle shots frightened it away.
Bringing his attention back to the body lying before him, he suddenly felt drained of all his strength, just then actually realizing that his death hunt was over. It brought no feeling of relief. Instead he was struck with a heavy sadness as he thought of his wife, Ann, and he wondered if she would forgive him for taking so long to avenge her. It troubled him that he could not bring her face into sharp focus in his mind. Suddenly exhausted, he sat down a few yards away from the corpse with his back against a tree, his rifle resting across his arms.
It was over. He was done.
• • •
When he opened his eyes, it was daylight. Realizing it, he started, suddenly wide-awake. He looked around him frantically, prepared to defend himself, but there was no one. His horse was standing several yards away, still saddled. A few yards beyond the Morgan, Sanchez’s bay stood, also saddled. They both appeared to be watching the man sitting against the tree and wondering if he was alive or dead. He looked over at the body, staring up at the morning sky in angry defiance. Even then, Cole had to assure himself that it was actually over. They were all dead and gone to hell, all six of them.
Stiff and cold, he roused himself to get up from his position and move his limbs in an effort to get his blood flowing. He remembered then that he had a little coffee left, so he decided to gather enough wood to build a fire. But before he did, he wanted to look on the slope on the other side of Sanchez’s body, curious to see if there had been a pack of wolves that threatened to attack, or if it had been just the one lone wolf. Walking just past the corpse, he stood gazing down the slope covered with a blanket of smooth white snow. He shook his head, perplexed, thinking he must still be groggy with sleep. There were no tracks, nothing to disturb the smooth white slope.
But there had to be tracks, he told himself.
It had not snowed while he was asleep. Even so, he walked down beyond the body and raked the surface of the snow with his boot in an effort to uncover the tracks. This could not be. It was impossible for a wolf to have come so close without leaving one track. And there was a wolf. He was certain of that. He had heard it growl, and Sanchez had heard it growl. If he had not, he wouldn’t have spun around to defend himself.
Completely confused now, he decided there must be an explanation for the absence of tracks, but he would have to figure it out later. It occurred to him that this was the second time he had encountered a wolf that left no tracks, recalling the white wolf he had seen nea
r Medicine Bear’s village.
I must still be asleep, dreaming, he told himself.
• • •
For the first time since the death of his wife, he set out with no promises to keep and no sense of failure. For months, his life had been a hunt for vengeance, and his future had stretched out no further than the next execution. For a change, he was in no hurry to get anywhere. When he left the scene of Sanchez’s death, he had to decide where he was heading. His buckskin packhorse was back in Cheyenne in Leon Bloodworth’s stable, but he was much closer to the Crow village near the forks of the Laramie and North Laramie rivers, so he decided he would go there.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but the day seemed more springlike on this morning as he continued along the bank of the river. There was even a glimpse of the sun occasionally through the cloudy sky, and the clouds were white and not the dingy dark snow clouds of the past several days. Behind him, he led the bay gelding, saddled and Sanchez’s Spencer carbine in the saddle sling. Maybe he could do some trading with Leon Bloodworth to pay for the bill he was going to have when he went to get the buckskin back.
His thoughts returned to the puzzling question about the wolf. He was still certain that he didn’t imagine the presence of the wolf.
“I heard the damn thing!” he stated emphatically. “And so did Sanchez.” He couldn’t help thinking about Walking Owl’s interpretation of his dream about the white wolf. “White Wolf,” he said, still talking to Joe. “I reckon him and Harley would try to tell me that some ghost wolf or something kept me from gettin’ shot by Sanchez. I expect I’ll just not tell ’em everything that happened back there in that ravine.”
Having said that, he still could not keep himself from wondering about the possibility. Maybe Harley was right. Maybe the Indians knew some things that the white man hadn’t learned about the world he lived in.
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