by John Benteen
Fair, holding Jess clutched to her, stumbled, fell, got to her knees, turned. Her face was a mask of fright and her mouth worked soundlessly. “Fair!” Cutler yelled. “Fair, it’s all right, now! It’s all right!” It seemed to take him forever, stiff as he was, to scramble from the wagon. Even as he did so, he worked the bolt, making sure another round was in the chamber, and as he ran forward, he never took his eyes from the wolf.
Fair just knelt there, frozen. It was Jess who moved first, comprehended. He jumped to his feet, ran to Cutler, threw his arms around Cutler’s legs. “You got him!” Jess shrieked hysterically. “You got the wolf!”
Cutler only picked him up and held him close and then he turned to Fair. She scrambled to her feet, face still white, eyes enormous. She looked from Cutler to the wolf.
“Where . . . how . . .?” She asked it blankly, dazedly. She was trembling when Cutler took her in his other arm, held her close.
“It’s all right,” he said again, his own voice shaky. “It’s all right. I was in the wagon all the time. I had him covered the minute he showed up.”
Under his embrace, Fair’s body went stiff. Then she seized his arm, shoved it away from her, stepped back, and now her eyes flamed with fury. “You . . .” she whispered, and he saw she understood. “You . . . rotten bastard.’”
Cutler stared at her. “You used us for bait,” she went on, voice low, husky, rasping. “You used me and my son for bait to bring that wolf!” Suddenly her tone rose to a high angry shout. “All the time, you knew he was coming for us and you made us stay here and you hid out in that wagon and ... we were just . . . just bait for your trap! Oh, John Cutler, you bastard, I could kill you!”
Cutler dropped Jess to the ground. “Mama . . .” the boy began. He ran to her. She shoved him away.
“Was that all we meant to you?” she rasped. Tears were running down her cheeks. “All along, was that all we meant to you? Bait, like two staked-out calves, to bring a killer? And you risked my son . . .?” For a moment, Cutler thought she was actually going to pull the Colt she wore. Then her knees collapsed. Suddenly she sat down on the ground, put her head in her hands, and began to cry convulsively.
Cutler went to her and stood over her. “Fair,” he said. “Fair, listen, I had to. There wasn’t any other way, don’t you see? I saw his track here yesterday, knew he had come right into the yard yesterday morning while you and Jess were here. I knew he’d come back the next time you were here, too. He’s been watching this place a long time. And when he came back, I had to make sure I was here to deal with him. I had to get him before my time ran out—before he came back when you and Jess were here alone . . .”
She did not raise her head. Cutler stood above her helplessly. Then he turned away, went to the wolf, stared down at it. Flies were already crawling over its black lips and inside its mouth, along the tongue and over the sharp, long, white fangs. Cutler sucked in a deep breath.
“Nothing,” he said hoarsely, “I ever did took more nerve. Nothing. Because I remembered Doreen. And if I had let that happen to you, too—that would have been the end of me as well. But he was crazy, Fair, the same way that grizzly was crazy. He had made up his mind that he wanted himself a human being, and he thought he knew where to get one without resistance, knew there was no man around to stop him ... I had to make him think that, and make you think that, too, because he had to die today. He had to, or you and Jess would have died tomorrow or next week. That’s all. No other way. But it’s over now. It’s over.”
She went on crying. He stood there motionless over the huge, sprawled body of the deranged gray killer, and it seemed to him that everything in him was frozen. He felt no triumph, no exultation. With Fair hating him like this, none was possible. The wolf had cost him too much, far too much.
Then, as he stood there, Fair’s crying ceased. He did not look around. But he heard her coming to him. Then she touched his arm. Her voice was thick, shaky. “John—John, I’m sorry. I understand. You did what you had to do. Only—why didn’t you tell me? I would have been bait enough. But risking Jess . . .”
“There wasn’t any other way,” Cutler said tonelessly. “You think I could have let you walk around out here knowing that he was coming?”
“John,” Fair said after a long silence. Then she put her arms around him. “All right,” she whispered. “All right.”
He turned, looked down at her. She looked back up at him, arms still around him, her face wet with tears, her eyes wide, unreadable. But then, slowly, she smiled.
And as she smiled, Cutler felt something give way inside of him. All at once, his legs seemed turned to water. Reaction hit him, full knowledge of the enormous gamble he had taken, and what it would have cost if he had lost, if that first shot had not driven home.
John Cutler sat down, suddenly, in the dirt beside the wolf and he began to shake. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus.” Then he looked up at Fair. “Go inside,” he said, “and get that bottle. I’m not working anymore.”
“Yes,” she said. “And then we’ll ride to Fellows’ place and spread the word.”
Cutler shook his head. “We’ll do that tomorrow.” He looked at the wolf. “Right now I’m going to have myself one hell-roaring drunk.”
Fair looked at him and at the body of the wolf, and at Jess, who, excited beyond ability to contain himself, ran in circles, out of earshot. Fair smiled and let out a whistling breath of relief. “You know something?” she said. “I just might join you.”
Chapter Nine
John Cutler awakened with a bruising hangover.
Blankly, he stared up at the ceiling of the ranch house. Then he became aware of the warm nakedness of the body next to his in the bed. He put out a hand and touched it. His lips formed a word. Doreen . . .
And then he knew that he’d been dreaming, and it was not she. It was Fair Randall, and he was in her bed. Jess! He felt a moment of panic until he remembered that Jess had begged to spend the night sleeping in Cutler’s wagon and that, because it was safe now, they had let him.
The rest of it came rushing back on Cutler, too. How he had drunk a quarter of the bottle at one long gulp before he was all right again and the shaking had stopped. How Jess ran around the wolf, begging to be allowed to skin it. And how Cutler, getting to his feet, had shaken his head. “No. Not yet. I want the association people to see it tomorrow. We’ll gut it now and hang it in the barn. Then tomorrow we’ll take its hide.”
He had done that, stepping back in awe at the sight of the huge body hanging from the barn rafters by its hind feet. He looked at the open, fanged jaws and thought again what damage they might have done, and he had another drink. Then he left Fair and Jess to go bring in Big Red and the mule. The great Airedale had gone almost mad at the sight of the dead wolf, and Cutler had had to chain him and warn Jess to stay away until he calmed down.
After that, the rest of the day, what there was of it, had been a blur. The necessary chores were done, and Jess ate supper. Cutler and Fair Randall had no appetite. Cutler killed the bottle, Fair joining him for an occasional drink mixed with water. There was another bottle in the cabinet. When Jess had been put to bed, that one was brought out.
“By God,” Cutler had said, pounding the table. “By God, we got him, didn’t we?” He laughed uproariously. Fair joined in. For a long time, they sat there drinking and laughing foolishly. Then Fair looked grave. “John . . .” she said, her eyes meeting his. She arose, went out. Cutler had another drink.
“John,” he heard her voice call a moment later. It was soft, vibrant. “John ...”
He got up, took the bottle. He went to the other room. No lamp burned there. Fair stood by the bed. Her body was white, ivory white, in the darkness. She said his name again and held out her arms, and Cutler, still carrying the bottle, went to her ...
Now, craving coffee, John Cutler slipped out of bed, dressed, stoked the fire, put the pot on to boil. Then he left the house, went to the barn. He stared at the wolf’s bod
y. Somehow, he felt no triumph now, only a strange kind of sympathy. “So you lost her,” he said quietly. “And it drove you crazy. You poor son of a bitch.” Then he went back to the house and by that time, Fair was up and dressed and pouring coffee. Cutler was just finishing his second cup when the association riders pounded into the yard.
“Cutler!” Tom Fellows roared.
Cutler grinned, stood up, went out, Fair trailing him. “Here, Tom . . .” Then his grin faded as he saw the expression on Fellows’ face. “Four more head!” Fellows yelled, slapping the saddle horn in fury. “That goddam wolf killed four more head of beef on my place last night!”
Cutler stared at him and then at the others, who looked back at him grimly. “Tom,” Fair began. “I don’t . . .”
“Hush,” Cutler said. Then he said, “Get down. All of you. Get down and come with me. I want to show you something.”
They looked at him wordlessly, then swung down. They followed him to the barn. Cutler led them in, then stepped aside. “There,” he said.
No one made a sound as they stared at the great dangling body. The silence lasted for a full minute. Then Cutler said, “I shot him yesterday at about three o’clock here in Fair’s ranch yard. He was stalking the boy and her.”
Fellows’ mouth worked. “It’s—impossible. I tell you, I lost four head of cattle last night. I found ‘em alive and well at sundown, but there wasn’t time to drive ‘em in to the main gather ... I went back for ‘em come sunrise and—they was dead. Chewed all to gristle. Cutler, I tell you they were killed last night!”
“Not by the Victorio Wolf,” Fair Randall said quietly.
“Then what—?” Jud Bobbitt’s voice was full of awe. “What did it? Is it . . . possible that . . . there really is a ghost, an old Apache spirit . . .?”
Cutler’s mouth made a tight grin. “I don’t know,” he said. “I do know that, whatever it is, it’s bound to have left a trail. And that I got a dog that can trail anything I put him on all the way to the end.”
Fellows whipped the air with a hand. “All right, damn it, get that Airedale of yours and get going . . .!”
Cutler shook his head. “Not so fast.” He jerked his thumb. “There hangs the Victorio Wolf. I came here to get him and I got him. My job’s over.”
“Your job is over . . .?” Fellows’ voice was outraged.
“Yep,” Cutler said. “Unless . . .” He broke off.
Fellows seemed about to take a punch at him. Jud Bobbitt stepped forward. “Unless what?” he asked quietly.
Cutler looked from one of them to the other. Then his smile vanished. “I don’t aim to play ring-around-the-rosy with another killer for weeks on end,” he said harshly. “If me and Big Red go after it, we’ll go after it to get it. But we ain’t going after it at all unless the rest of you ride with me—with your guns—and guarantee to follow the trail wherever it goes, stick with it until it runs out. No matter where it leads.”
“Meaning—?” Bobbitt began, and then comprehension came into his eyes. “Even if it leads to Holz.”
“That’s it,” Cutler said.
There was a long silence among them there in the barn, in the shadow of the hanging wolf carcass. Then Bobbitt spat. “Me,” he said, “I am getting powerful tired of Mr. Holz and what he’s costin’ us.” He shifted the Winchester he held. “Cutler, I’ll ride with you. To the end.”
After a second, Shannon said harshly, “Yeah. Me, too.”
“And me,” chimed in Dolan.
The others nodded assent. “Tom, it’s up to you,” Bobbitt said. “It was your beef.”
Fellows looked at Cutler, then at the body of the wolf. Slowly, he nodded. “Cutler,” he said. “Get your dog and let’s head out.”
The four carcasses were scattered around a clump of willows from which a spring welled clearly—two steers, a cow, her calf. Big Red, at Cutler’s command, kept at heel, as Cutler walked among the bodies, squatting over them. All four of them had been ripped hideously, but nothing had been eaten from any of them. Before they had died, they had run a long way. Cutler took in all this, and his lips peeled back from his teeth in a kind of snarl.
“Well?” Fellows asked tensely. “You know what did it? We got another killer wolf?”
“No,” Cutler said. “You ain’t got another killer wolf. Mount up.”
At his heels, Big Red whined curiously, the sound full of puzzlement. Cutler stepped back. “All right, Red. Trail.”
That was the command the big dog had been waiting for. Tail curled up, he put his head down, began to course in ever-widening circles, sniffing, growling deep in his throat. Once he raised his head, looked at Cutler as if for reassurance. Cutler said again, “Trail.” Then he stepped up into the saddle of the mule.
He held it close-checked as Red stopped, appearing to think hard. Then the dog put its head down again, sniffed once more, and its deep-voiced bark rang out with startling suddenness. All at once, like a rocket, it took off.
“Let’s go,” Cutler yelled; and he spurred the mule.
As Red raced eastward, traveling full speed, Cutler swung in behind him, and the association riders followed.
It was a wild, breakneck gallop, and as the mule pounded along beneath him, John Cutler felt again that wild upsurge of the hunter’s joy. Only, he knew, this was a hunt that would have a different ending. There would, he was certain, be men at the end of this trail, and it had been a long time since he had hunted men. The wind was strong in his face, the steady drumming of the horses’ hooves was deep and rhythmic, the roar of the dog racing ahead of them was stirring. Cutler felt like yelling, but he kept his silence.
They were off Tom Fellows’ land now and on Fair Randall’s and still heading east. It was, Cutler thought, almost exactly the route the Victorio Wolf had taken on that wild midnight chase, except that their quarry now kept to easier traveling. They circled the rock-jumbled canyon that had been such a nightmare on that earlier hunt, galloped down a long ridge, struck a wide, shallow, full-flowing stream of water below. Red crashed through the scrubby willows, plunged in. Cutler drew rein. “Hold it,” he commanded. The association riders pulled up behind.
Dripping, Red emerged on the far bank, shook himself. Instead of beelining off, he was silent now and traveling in circles again. Cutler turned in the saddle. “You, Fellows. Take four men and ride downstream. I’ll go up. Stay in the water and watch the bank.”
Fellows said, “What are we supposed to be looking for?”
Cutler’s brows went up. “You mean you haven’t seen ‘em already? Two trails—one of a ridden horse. The other will be the tracks of a damned big dog. They traveled in the water to break the scent. But they wouldn’t have gone more than a mile one way or the other.” He touched the mule with spurs, put it into the creek, sent it wading upstream, with part of the association men behind him. Red raced silently along the bank, head down.
After a mile’s ride, Cutler had still seen nothing. Then, from downstream, he heard a high-pitched whoop. He called to the Airedale, turned the mule, and, along the bank, pounded to where Fellows sat his horse.
“There,” Fellows said.
The print of a shod hoof and the track of an enormous dog were side by side in a patch of mud, both filled now with water. Red ran to them, barked, struck out once more.
“Made just before daybreak by their looks,” Cutler said. “Come on.” He put the mule into a gallop.
Three more miles through broken country, the men riding hard, Red’s voice leading them like a beacon. Then Fellows reined up his mount.
“Hold it!” he snapped and pointed. The sign on the juniper read: BOUNDARY LINE. THIS LAND POSTED. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. G. HOLZ.
Cutler rode over to the sign, leaned out of the saddle, seized it. With a mighty wrench, he jerked it loose, sent it spinning into the brush. Red was a full quarter mile ahead. “Come on,” Cutler said, and he rode again, but now he pulled his saddle gun and laid it on the pommel.
Le
d by Cutler, the association men galloped onto Holz’s land, the Airedale racing out ahead. They had made perhaps half a mile when the first fusillade of warning shots rang out from a nearby ridge-top. Lead whizzed overhead, and horses reared as their riders jerked them to a stop.
Fellows’ face twisted with anger. “They’re up there on that hill. By God, if they want some fight, we’ll give ‘em some.” He yanked his carbine and worked its lever and kicked his horse, and then he was charging up the slope, firing as he went. Jud Bobbitt let out a whoop. “That’s it, Tom! Come on, you men!” Then, like a cavalry charge, they pounded up the hill, bent low in their saddles, firing as they rode.
From the ridge top, the splatter of gunfire dwindled off, as if Holz’s men were amazed at meeting resistance, had no idea what to do next. Someone up there on the skyline fired one last shot; Fellows’ horse went down, but Fellows leaped clear. Bobbitt rode up alongside, kicked a stirrup free, and Fellows swung up behind him.
Cutler had taken no part in this battle, nor, as it turned out, did he need to. Under the impact of the association’s charge, Holz’s riders on the ridge broke. It was the first time they’d had to deal with more than one man at a time, and there was no one to give them orders. Cutler heard somebody yell, “Let’s fog it!” He saw men mounting among the rocks and juniper up there; and then Holz’s men, five of them, were in full retreat.
Bobbitt reined up his horse. “Let ‘em run!” he bellowed. “Let’s follow that red dog!” He jerked the mount around, and with triumph on his face and Fellows’, galloped down the ridge again, followed by the others. “That takes care of them!” he snapped.
“Judas!” Fellows breathed. “I never realized that they’d just fall apart if we come after ‘em. If I’d known that ...”
“You’da saved a lot of beef,” Cutler rasped. “Let’s go. We got a trail to follow. Spread out, don’t bunch up, in case some of those Holz men go to sniping.” He lashed the mule with reins, and the animal went into a run. Red had drawn far ahead now, his barking fainter.