Instead, clinging to the mane with one hand, he leaned most of the way to the ground at a gallop and sank one hand deep into wool. He plucked the little guy up into his lap, whirled his horse around, and charged for the barn.
The wolf howled so close, Tucker could swear he felt hot breath on his neck. Dropping the lamb to straddle the horse’s back, Tucker slung his rifle off his back, wheeled his horse around. He found a wolf not racing at him, but running toward another lamb. Tucker fired, then cocked his gun and fired again.
The wolf fell dead, a few feet from the lamb, which stumbled back on shaky legs.
Tucker hung his rifle back on his shoulder and went for the lamb before it could go hunt up another wolf to eat it. He grabbed it as he had the first one and took the two of them to the barn as fast as he could go. Shannon was coming out of the barn. He handed both of the sheep over and rushed away.
“I’ve got three penned up,” she called after him.
“Five down, seven to go,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Be careful. The wolves are right up to the clearing.”
He heard another wolf, this one not howling but instead making the ugly snarling sound of an animal ready for the kill. He swatted the grulla on the rump, aiming straight for that sound while trying to spare his broken leg.
The mustang burst through the underbrush at the edge of the forest and crashed into a pack of four of the biggest timber wolves Tucker had ever seen. He had his rifle in action instantly. He fired the Yellowboy again and again. The wolves leaped at the horse, biting at her. His grulla was a mustang, born wild, and she knew how to fight. She reared and lashed out with hooves and teeth.
It was impossible to stay seated with no saddle and both hands on his rifle. Tucker went over and landed flat on his back. The wolves closing in. Enough moonlight came through the trees that he could see to aim and fire at the wolves until one of the beasts got past his rifle barrel, sank its teeth into the iron with a growl, and ripped it out of his hands.
Tucker drew his six-gun and killed the beast that’d taken his gun. The world became a blur of yellow eyes and dark fur, the sound of snarling filling the air.
Two more wolves came at him, one from each side, and his cutlass found its way into his hand without him making a decision to reach for it. He slashed at the wolves with one hand while firing with the other. Then hooves came down just inches from his face and cleared the wolves away. Tucker paused, not wanting to cut his horse or shoot it. The horse jumped away just as another huge wolf landed hard on Tucker’s chest and arm, knocking his gun hand aside. Tucker sank the knife into the wolf’s chest and heaved the brute off, leaving his knife slippery with blood. He lost his grip on it when the wolf hit the ground.
Before he could take a breath, another wolf was on him, its snapping jaws only inches away. With his cutlass gone, he clawed for the knife up his sleeve but couldn’t get ahold of it.
Tucker was going to lose this fight. He ached with regret because, in Shannon’s arms tonight, he’d found one of the wonders of marriage. And now he was going to be torn away from her.
As his hand slipped, and with a final prayer to God, the wolf made one final lunge.
Then came deafening gunfire. The wolf on his chest yelped and flew sideways. The explosion of bullets ended as quickly as they began. Silence reigned in the nearly pitch-black woods.
Stunned, flat on his back, Tucker shook off the confusion. He blinked to bring the world into focus and realized Shannon stood there, smoke curling from her six-gun in one hand, his Yellowboy in the other.
She looked at him, her eyes barely visible in the darkness, raking his body as if searching for every tooth and claw mark. Then she went back to surveying the woods around them.
“Are you hurt? Can you get up? I can’t see well enough in these trees to watch for another attack. We need to get out of here.”
“I . . . I can get up.” At least he hoped he could.
He tried to sound steady, but he must have failed because that earned him a sharp look from Shannon. “Two got away. Most of the sheep are back in the barn or close by it. But the ones that didn’t come back . . .” She tore her eyes away from him and went back to keeping watch, guns at the ready, her hands steady as granite. “There are five I reckon didn’t make it.”
Tucker struggled to sit up. His horse then trotted over, nudged him in the shoulder and helped him. The grulla leaned her head down far enough he could grab her mane. His hands were trembling, unlike his wife’s. He hoped Shannon kept watching for wolves because he was ashamed of how shaken he was.
His grip uncertain, he managed, with the horse’s help, to get to his feet . . . foot. For all the madness, he seemed to have not re-broken his leg. And why would he? He’d spent most of this fight either riding or knocked to the ground.
Shannon looked at him, at the woods, at the dead wolves. Tucker counted four carcasses.
“You got one out in the clearing and two more in here.” She saw his pistol on the ground, grabbed it, and handed it to him. “I got one close to the barn and two here.”
He holstered the gun, disgusted with himself for losing both his weapons. “I think my horse gets credit for some of ’em.”
“Your horse probably didn’t do this.” She reached for the handle of his cutlass in a wolf’s chest and yanked it free with undue violence. The first outward sign he’d seen of her inward anger at this attack on her woolly friends.
She wiped the knife on the wolf’s fur, then gave it to Tucker. “Can you mount up?”
Tucker dug deep and found the gumption to swing up on his grulla’s back. He didn’t have a trace of the nimbleness from earlier. He still hadn’t given much thought to whether the wolves had done much chewing on him. He wondered how his mustang had weathered the attack.
He remembered the grizzly bear. Animal claws and teeth were filthy. Sunrise had said it, and Tucker knew it for a fact. He’d make a point to check for any wounds on himself and his horse before a lot of time passed. It was too soon after the fight. Shock could cover a lot of pain, but he didn’t feel all that wounded. He turned the horse and was out of the woods, riding for the barn. Two sheep milled around outside the door, the fool critters.
Except this once they weren’t fool critters. They hadn’t unlocked the barn. Tucker rode up to the door, still on his horse. He undid the hasp Shannon had fastened, swung the door open, and the sheep rushed in. He counted nine. He turned to watch Shannon backing toward the barn, still facing the woods. Maybe she was on the lookout for wolves; more likely she was very carefully not looking at her diminished herd.
As Tucker prepared to dismount, a loud bleat drew his attention. Out of the woods, not far from where the wolves had attacked, their ram dashed into view.
“Ramual!” Shannon’s voice broke. She didn’t let up on keeping watch, rifle in one hand, pistol in the other. She didn’t even move toward the herd sire. But Tucker knew she was glad to see the old guy. He backed his horse away from the open door as the ram ran inside with a baa of pure relief.
“Four missing,” Tucker said. Then, feeling like the worst kind of hopeless optimist, he added, “We could scout around for a bit. Maybe we’ll find ’em alive still.”
“Or find what’s left of them,” Shannon said with grim resignation. “No, I’m lucky to have lost so few. Very lucky.” She tucked her pistol in the waistband of her britches, shouldered his Yellowboy, and turned to pick up his crutch and bring it to him. He dismounted and slapped the horse on the rump. She went inside to join Shannon’s mustang, which had wisely stayed in the barn throughout the whole mess. Shannon handed him his rifle and his crutch.
“Let’s get you inside to check for bites. We’ll have a closer look at the livestock in the morning, but they look all right. Even your horse, and she was in the thick of it.” Shannon closed the barn. “I want a padlock on that door by tomorrow night.”
As they headed for the house, Tucker said, “A padlock won’t stop a fire.”
Shan
non stopped, and Tucker did too. They faced each other.
“It was him, wasn’t it? The man who burned out the homesteaders. He’s decided we’re next. He’s trying to drive us off our claim.”
Tucker nodded, jerked his head toward the cabin, and they started walking again. “We’ll post a watch.”
“Filthy yellow-bellied coward.” Shannon got to the door and held it open. “Sneaking around in the night, starting fires, hurting people with little or no money, driving them off their land. Do you remember when someone was trying to drive Kylie off her homestead?”
“Yep, it was those kids in town.” Tucker stepped inside and made his way to the bed. They hadn’t been kids, but they’d refused to grow up, so Tucker caught himself thinking of them that way.
Shannon turned up the lantern. “They were doing it because they knew Gage Coulter wanted her claim.”
“Coulter’s the one who told us about this.” Tucker shucked his clothes, disgusted to see one of his sleeves was torn nearly off. Clothes were supposed to be made out of leather for just such times as these. “He wouldn’t burn our homestead, Shannon. I know the man. He isn’t behind this. And even if he was coyote enough to prey on homesteaders, he’s not fool enough to try it with me.”
Shannon’s eyes came up and met his. They exchanged a long look. “You can track whoever did this, can’t you?”
“I can track him.” Tucker could track a rattlesnake across solid rock. He sure enough could track the rattlesnake that had attacked his home.
“Good. But just because it isn’t Coulter doesn’t mean someone isn’t doing it thinking to please him. That’s how it was before.” Shannon pulled a kettle of water off the fireplace hook, filled a basin with water, and came to his side. “It could even be that same girl . . . what was her name?”
“Myra Hughes. The daughter of Erica Langley, who runs the town diner. And her stepfather’s Bo Langley, the U.S. Marshal who makes his home in Aspen Ridge. But he’s gone more than he’s home. Her brothers were in on it with her, and they’ve both left town. Bo threw them out of his house. He let Myra stay.”
“Well, she thought claiming Kylie’s land could snag her Coulter as a husband, so maybe she thinks that’d work again now with my land.”
“Maybe. She’d have to be mighty stupid, but maybe. And there are other ranchers in the area. Maybe she’s turned her eyes to them. And if a rancher who doesn’t like homesteaders is behind this, Coulter isn’t the only one in the area.” Tucker found some red scratches on the arm with the ruined sleeve.
“He’s the only one who’d want this land. I’m homesteading on his range.” Seeing his scratches, Shannon lifted a rag from the steaming water. “That’s a bite, Tucker.”
Her voice broke then, like it had for Ramual. This time she didn’t control it. She dropped the rag back into the basin and buried her face in her hands. A sob tore from her throat, and her shoulders shook as she wept.
“I’m fine, honey. These scratches didn’t even cut through the skin deep enough to bleed. And it looks like they’re the only marks on me. It’s a pure miracle—God was watching over us tonight.” Tucker drew her into his arms until they lay together on the bed.
Hot tears soaked his bare chest. He let her go on for a long time. Hearing her weep like this almost made him want to cry. He rocked her and whispered the sweetest words an idiot mountain man could come up with, about how beautiful she was and how he didn’t deserve her and how he knew nothing of how to treat a woman or speak to a woman but that he was the luckiest man alive.
He rubbed her shoulders and kissed her pretty, dark curls and whispered gentle comfort into her ears.
Finally the sobbing eased. When at last she lifted her head, her tear-soaked eyes shone blue in the lantern light.
He took her face in both hands and whispered, “How did I end up married to such a beautiful woman? How has God seen fit to bless me so richly?”
He kissed her, trying to put it all into his kiss, the things he felt that he was too clumsy and thickheaded to say.
Shannon kissed him back. “I want to forget about wolves, husband.” She wrapped her arms tight around his neck and pressed him down on the bed. “Please, for a little while, can you make me forget about everything but you?”
He could use a little forgetfulness himself, so he did his best to help both of them think of something really good.
20
Tucker woke to a crack of thunder. He threw off the blanket in the gray light of predawn with as much urgency as he’d done when the bleating sheep had awakened him.
“I’ve got to get a look at those tracks before it rains.”
Shannon got out of his way as he dressed. Soon he was out the door on the one crutch, with her right behind him.
“I heard the horse running down the trail that way.” Tucker pointed at the main trail to town. “But it sounded like it came from the woods. I think he had it hidden.”
Thunder rolled across the sky again.
It was so overcast, even when the sun did finally get above the horizon, Tucker wasn’t going to be able to see much. “So if he hid his horse there”—he gestured to a likely spot just west of the barn—“it stands to reason he came out of the woods.”
He headed for that area then, this side of the river near the rocks Coulter had dragged in to make a ford, and found . . . nothing. Shannon was tagging after him. He looked over his shoulder. “Stay back until I find his tracks. He may have covered them up, wiped them out somehow. I don’t want any other footprints than mine over here.”
Nodding, Shannon said, “I’m going to check on the sheep and make sure your horse is all right.”
Tucker turned his attention back on the ground. His crutch didn’t bother him because his search was slow and mighty careful. He’d come over here expecting to pick up a trail immediately but there was nothing. He walked the length of the woods. The grass was sparse here, and if the man walked out of these woods, Tucker should be able to tell. Finally, not knowing what else to do, Tucker went farther into the woods, hunting for the spot their attacker had hidden his horse. Tucker found it, though he was a long time doing it. Whoever had attacked them was good at covering his tracks, going to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity. The only good thing was it convinced Tucker that this was a man they knew. No other reason to be so careful.
The thunder grew louder. Lightning brightened the densely wooded place where Tucker searched.
Once Tucker found the right spot, he laid the crutch aside and got down on his knees, studying every inch. A horse had to leave tracks. There was a heavy carpet of pine needles under the tree. Brushing them aside carefully, Tucker couldn’t find a single cut from a hoof. There was a bent branch with some missing bark that must be where the horse had been tied. And Tucker found a tuft of dark brown horsehair scraped off on the trunk of a tree. That described about half the horses in the country.
How could a man leave his horse standing for what had to be the better part of an hour without it leaving any sign? Tucker knew if he got a good look at a horse’s prints, there was a good chance he’d recognize that horse if he ever saw it again.
And the horse had to stand a long time. It was a fifteen-minute walk from here to the barn, and just as long back. And the man needed time for his mischief. How could the horse not leave a print?
It didn’t seem as though the man had brushed them away. The pine needles and other naturally scattered debris on the forest floor didn’t look as if they’d been sprinkled over the ground to cover anything up.
The first sprinkle of rain hit Tucker’s neck, and he knew he couldn’t spend more time going over this spot. Knowing any trace of evidence the man had left would soon be washed clean away, he thought of the direction of the running horse, grabbed his crutch, and walked the path the horse most likely took. Again he found no prints. Whoever this intruder was, Tucker’s respect for him went up a notch, along with his worries.
Thunder now sounded almost continually. A
s Tucker reached the trail, the wind gusted, and dirt and leaves and needles scudded along on the ground, making any hope of detecting someone who had passed this way even harder.
Especially a careful man, and this varmint had been mighty careful. Just as he began to feel it was hopeless, Tucker found the spot where the horse had come out of the woods.
He saw it only because he knew somehow it had to be here. If he hadn’t been looking, he’d never have recognized the misshapen dents in the trail as hoofprints. Crouching beside them, Tucker thought it over. “You’ve got the horse’s hooves covered up in rags,” he whispered.
Tucker had seen that before. He’d known Indians to do it. This was no Indian, though. He knew the Indians in the area too well. They didn’t live like this. They didn’t do mischief for some twisted reason, to steal a homestead or some nonsense like that.
That didn’t mean one of the Native folks might not occasionally steal a horse or butcher a cow if he was hungry. That wouldn’t shock Tucker. And Indians were mighty good at ghosting around in the woods. But they didn’t do sneaky things like let a pen of sheep out just to hope they’d be eaten by wolves.
And besides that, they knew Tucker and were his friends, almost his family. Sunrise had left her village to marry a white man. But though she didn’t live with them, she’d gotten along with the Shoshone and her children, which included Tucker, and had dealt well with the tribe.
No Indian would do this to him.
So who had? He paced along, barely able to see the strangely shaped tracks. The sprinkle turned into a light rain.
Tucker turned back. He could have followed that trail, he was almost sure. But by the time he got his horse and came back out here, there’d be nothing left to follow.
Frustrated, he hobbled back to the cabin in time to see Shannon emerging from the woods with a little white ball of fur in her arms, kicking for all it was worth. Beaming as if she weren’t soaked to the skin, she waved at him, almost dropped the struggling little critter, then started running to the barn through the now-pouring rain. Tucker decided he’d join the fracas in the barn, see how his mustang had fared, and welcome home one more runaway.
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