The Wolves of Seven Pines

by E. L. Ripley

  Silva looked down at the cup of stale water they were sharing.

  “Your friend doesn’t carry any whiskey?” he asked finally, his first words since Carpenter’s return.

  “He don’t drink.”

  “One more reason not to like him.”

  Carpenter grunted in agreement. There was no hope of comfort, tied and sitting with his back to a tree, but he was tired enough that he didn’t particularly mind.

  “Stop talking,” Rene said bluntly, pointing a warning finger.

  “Choose your battles, son,” Carpenter told him tiredly.

  The boy’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t shoot anyone, and he wouldn’t. Silva was finished, at least for today. He wouldn’t try anything else.

  “Why didn’t you just hit him?” Silva asked quietly after a few minutes. It wasn’t an accusation, and he didn’t even sound upset. “Because he’s your friend?”

  Carpenter didn’t hurry to answer. The question had a lot of answers, many of which would’ve been true. Finally, he looked over. “You ever seen a man hurt?”

  “I’ve been beaten into the dirt,” Silva replied at once, indignant.

  In fact, Silva’s beating hadn’t been particularly severe. If it had been, he wouldn’t have made it this far.

  “I don’t mean like that. That ain’t the same. You ain’t been to war.”

  “Mr. Carpenter, I am at war.” He snorted. “I’m losing. But would you deny it?”

  Carpenter sighed. “They took it all from you, and they done that to your dog.” He nodded. “I know you’re ready to kill. And if you had that pistol, you’d do it. But it ain’t the same, friend or enemy. Up close. It ain’t as easy as it is with a gun.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to me.”

  “Ears as big as yours, I’d think you could hear better.”

  “Head as big as yours, I’d think you had a brain,” Silva snapped. “You think this’ll end any better for you than it will for me?”

  Carpenter shrugged, unperturbed. “Gold might change it.”

  “You really believe that?”

  He hesitated. “Ain’t much choice in it.”

  Silva might have argued further, but Yates’ pickax had fallen silent. They couldn’t see him at all in the black beyond the firelight, but presently his lantern came over the hill and he appeared, hauling a sack over his shoulder.

  Rene looked relieved to have him back; he might have been a cooler hand than Carpenter had initially given him credit for, but being alone with two prisoners was no small chore.

  Yates dropped the sack and sat beside it, mopping at his face with his bandanna.

  “Well?” Carpenter asked before Rene could.

  “I got a fair amount up, though there’s a good bit of rock in there as well.” He nudged the sack with his boot. “I’ll wager there’s more.”

  Rene looked puzzled, staring at Yates’ thoughtful face. “Ain’t that cause to celebrate?” he asked, spreading his hands.

  “Think about it, son,” Carpenter told him. “You could celebrate if this was your claim, but it ain’t. Even if there is a deposit, you won’t build a mine here. Not in secret. About the best you can do is try to get as much as you can out quietly. That means no blasting.”

  Yates nodded, scowling. “And secrecy means there can’t be much help. Hard enough to find a man who ain’t afraid of hard work, but to find them that’ll work and keep their mouths shut?” He snorted. “My luck was never good to begin with.”

  “Then we found gold, but we can’t keep it,” Rene said. “Is that your meaning, Mr. Yates?”

  “It can still do us good,” Yates told him. “It ain’t enough to change the world, but it is enough to show there’s gold in these mountains worth looking for.”

  “You want to use it to swindle more gullible people into coming to Antelope Valley?” Silva asked bitterly. “And why not? I won’t be around to tell them the gold’s really on government land they can’t touch.”

  “The gold is in the valley,” Yates said firmly. “It just ain’t been found yet. Rene, we can finally carry some good news back with us. It’s about time.”

  Rene shot to his feet, dropping his cup and pulling his pistol. Yates didn’t startle, but his brows rose.

  “My word, boy. What is it?”

  “You ain’t heard it?” Rene scanned the trees in the dark, and an uneasiness started to bubble in Carpenter’s stomach.

  “Hear what?” Silva snapped.

  “Wolves,” Carpenter said, and Rene looked over at him sharply.

  Yates frowned, then put up a hand for quiet. The moments went by, and there it was, carried by the lazy wind: a distant howling. Yates let his breath out and left his rifle where it was.

  “They’re miles away,” he said to Rene. “Sit down.”

  “I don’t know,” the young man replied, backing away from the trees. “I don’t know, Mr. Yates. I don’t like wolves.”

  Silva snickered, and Carpenter nudged him with his elbow. Rene was on edge, and his pistol was cocked. This was the wrong time to provoke him.

  “You only got to fire a shot to frighten them,” Yates told him, yawning. “Though there are a number of them in these parts. I ain’t seen one yet, though.”

  He flinched as Rene fired his pistol in the air. Then again.

  Yates leapt to his feet, truly shocked.

  “For God’s sake,” he snarled. “They’re miles away! That ain’t gonna scare them!” He got himself under control and let out something like a laugh. “You scared me. Put me in an early grave, you fool.”

  “I ain’t no fool. Them wolves is killers.”

  “Rene, they probably ain’t, but you give me that pistol.” He put his hand out. “Now you told everyone for five miles where we are.”

  “Ain’t nobody out here,” the boy said huffily.

  “We know that ain’t true,” Yates told him patiently. “We already met the one fella. Could be man-eatin’ savages in these hills for all I know.”

  “You shot your rifle,” Rene accused him, pointing.

  “There was a reason for that,” the older man hissed.

  “Yeah, to scare them off! You didn’t even really want to catch them, did you? Then make me the nursemaid, Mr. Yates. Don’t you lecture me.”

  Yates drew himself up, but halted there and took a deep breath. Carpenter remembered him doing just that during the war, praying for patience when dealing with the duller of the soldiers. Rene wasn’t dull, though. He was scared and frustrated but not stupid. Not blind, either.

  “Besides,” Rene muttered, deflating a little, “any savages out there, I’ll kill ’em. I ain’t afraid of them.”

  Just wolves, then.

  “And I’ll keep my pistol,” he added waspishly, cutting Yates off as he opened his mouth.

  Yates waved a hand and went back to his seat. “Fine.”

  Rene scowled at him a moment longer, then rammed the gun into his holster. He turned his back, but then turned right back around. “Don’t nobody want to get ate by wolves,” he added, and that was true enough.

  “All right, Rene. Please don’t fire that pistol again unless you got something to aim for,” Yates said patiently, giving Carpenter a look, though he hadn’t said a word.

  The boy just turned and stalked away.

  For a moment, Carpenter could only wonder at the grace Yates had shown. Of course, Yates had been a father. It was a pity it hadn’t been for longer; it seemed, at least to Carpenter, that the man had a talent for it.

  Rene was barely out of the firelight before he slipped and fell, branches crunching and rustling in the loam. A moment later, he was cursing; then he cried out in pain.

  A shot rang out.

  That got Yates’ attention. He looked up frowning, but before he could say anything, a second shot crash
ed down on their ears.

  Yates leapt up with his rifle, putting it to his shoulder and taking aim at the darkness where Rene had vanished.

  “Rene?” he called out. “You all right, son?”

  The reply was a strangled groan. It was the stupidest imaginable thing to do, but that didn’t stop Yates from charging into the dark.

  “I got him,” Rene coughed, and the words didn’t come out well. Carpenter’s heart had been set off by the first shot, and it had never gotten around to slowing down. More noises came from the dark, and Silva was openly bewildered.

  “Come on. Come on, now,” Yates said.

  “I didn’t hear no rattle,” Rene was saying.

  They returned to the firelight, Yates more dragging the boy than supporting him. Rene collapsed in the light, chest heaving.

  “I got him, though.”

  “I saw,” Yates was saying, pushing up Rene’s shirt.

  “Is he bit?” Carpenter asked.

  “He is,” Yates replied tightly. “Stay still, now, son. No, stay.” He pushed Rene back down. “Keep taking them breaths, and don’t move a muscle.”

  It looked like he’d been bitten on the side after he fell. The chill was starting to cut through their clothes, but Rene was shiny with sweat and starting to shake.

  “It’s all right,” Yates was telling him, covering him with a blanket.

  Silva was stunned; he stared without blinking. Carpenter kept his eyes on the fire, but he couldn’t close his ears to Rene’s pitiful sounds and Yates’ attempts to comfort him. Even with his hands free, there wasn’t a thing Carpenter could do.

  He noticed Yates looking over at Silva as though he wanted to say something.

  “I design firearms,” Silva told him frankly. “I’m not a physician.”

  There was no faulting Yates’ desperation. He scrambled over to Carpenter.

  “We can carry him,” he said. “You and me. If we hurry, we can reach the horses by midmorning. If we really hurry.”

  Carpenter tried to look sympathetic, but this was just the panic talking. They couldn’t go rushing off at night, even without the deadweight of a snake-bitten man to carry. He hadn’t forgotten the prospector; Rene was likely the second one struck by a rattler on this hill, which made it a poor place to travel even in daylight. Rene might last the night, or he might not, but he certainly wouldn’t have help if someone in a hurry broke a leg trying to carry him.

  He didn’t have to say any of that; Yates was in a bad way, but he still had his senses.

  “All right,” Carpenter replied calmly. “If you think it’s best.”

  Yates’ eyes flashed. He knew perfectly well it wasn’t best, but he’d rather be bitten himself or break his neck than stay here, helpless and doing nothing.

  Rene was shivering badly. He sat up abruptly, and Yates hurried back to help him lean over and vomit. The silence was heavy enough that even that seemed loud.

  Until the wolves started howling, and they were closer now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It wasn’t often that the world Carpenter woke up to was even less appetizing than the one he had left behind in his dreams. Morning was supposed to be a relief, and the sun was supposed to rescue him, because no one else was going to do it. Of course, at times like this, he might’ve been willing to say that a man could be forgiven for not putting his whole heart into finding a way to stop living in the past.

  Carpenter came awake when Yates did, before sunrise. Without a sound they peered around in the grainy light, and it wasn’t the deep chill of morning that had Carpenter’s blood running cold.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Yates caught his eye and took up his rifle, staying low and inching over to Rene. He gave him a light shake, looking worriedly at the trees around them. Rene didn’t respond, and Yates shook him more firmly.

  Some sad noises emerged from the blankets, and Carpenter set his jaw. What did it say about him that it would’ve been a relief if the boy hadn’t lasted? Now Silva was awake as well but quiet.

  But Yates didn’t say anything; he only crouched there, listening.

  A twig snapped, and he twisted and brought up the rifle but didn’t fire. Carpenter couldn’t see more than a few feet in this light, and Yates couldn’t have been much better off. He waited, rigid, for a long time before lowering the barrel.

  “Is he gone?” Carpenter asked; he couldn’t even look if he wanted to, tied to the tree.

  “I don’t know.” Yates was hiding his feelings well. His urgency was there, but so was his sense. He wanted a little more light, but it didn’t matter now. Someone had been out there, and he hadn’t announced himself or approached.

  Yates stowed the camp as quickly as possible, leaving behind everything he could. It looked as though he planned to carry the gold, and Carpenter didn’t know if there was enough metal in that bag to be a serious burden, but there was also a good deal of rock.

  Yates sliced Carpenter free and jerked Silva to his feet.

  “You can run if you want,” he warned. “But I ain’t shooting to wound. We can’t carry the both of you. There’s wolves that way,” he said, indicating with his eyes; they had listened to them through the night. “And someone there. Maybe they’re friendly. If I do wish, then I wish you luck.”

  That was all he had to say. Carpenter helped Yates get Rene onto a makeshift stretcher of a blanket. The boy’s color was terrible, and the way he shook and jerked was even worse. They tried to make him drink a little water, but he threw it back up right away. The spot on his side where he’d been bitten was turning brown.

  It still wasn’t light enough to make it wise, but that didn’t matter. They set off down the hill, Silva out in front, choosing his steps carefully with his hands still tied behind his back.

  “Don’t fall behind, Silva,” Yates said, keeping his voice low. “Stay where I can see you.”

  “Could it be that drifter?” Carpenter asked.

  “I don’t know what he’d be doing back this way,” Yates replied distractedly as he glanced worriedly over his shoulder. “I thought he had the look of a man running from something.”

  “I had the same notion.” The man himself had admitted it, though apparently not to Yates.

  It wasn’t lost on Carpenter that if a day of walking was enough to put him in a bad state, a day of walking while carrying Rene would likely kill him. They weren’t even to the bottom of this hill, not even a quarter of the way into the first mile, and his shoulders burned. He wasn’t as practiced as Yates at swinging a sledge. Maybe he hadn’t been doing it right.

  Chips of bark and wood stung his face as a bullet crashed into the tree to his right. He drew up short and nearly dropped Rene, but kept his hold on him as Yates did the same.

  Silva should’ve run, but he did what anyone would’ve done and turned to look back. What he saw was enough to stop him, and there was no faulting him for that.

  There were three of them: dark figures in the gloom making their way down the hillside. Then the scout who’d been watching them had gone back to his friends, who must have been close.

  “Hold up there,” one of them shouted down.

  “Let us go,” Carpenter shouted back at once. “The man’s bit, and he ain’t got long.”

  “You’re the one who ain’t got long if you don’t shut your mouth,” the man shouted back. “Don’t you move,” he warned, making his way down, pistol in hand. “Keep on holding him up. I like where your hands is now. Just hold that boy there.”

  “You got no grievance with us,” Yates bit out. “And we got nothing worth taking.”

  “That goes for you as well,” the man replied, pointing the pistol at him for a moment, then swinging it back to Silva. “You come on over here, boy.” He was as tall as Carpenter, but a good deal thinner, and by the look of things in no better condit
ion. His clothes were worn and dirty, and there was a raggedness in the way he moved that betrayed that it had been a while since he’d had a night in a real bed. The hat on his head was one of the funny round ones that Englishmen liked, but he was no Englishman.

  “Is it him?” the second asked, catching up. He was only Silva’s size, but even more ragged than the first. The third was the roughest of them all, and he wasn’t even wearing a coat. His teeth were black, and his hair was the same color, long and tangled.

  All three were armed, and the one with the long hair had three sets of saddlebags over his shoulder, so it was likely that, just like Yates and Rene, they had left their horses behind to brave these thick woods on foot.

  “Oh, it’s him all right,” the leader replied, peering at Silva.

  Something wasn’t right, and they all knew it. Hale’s men wanted Silva sure enough, but these weren’t Hale’s men. Carpenter didn’t even have a guess for who they were. What could they want with Silva?

  “Something to be said here about fair play, Murphy,” the shorter one said, shaking his head. “Bad luck, y’all. You almost had him. But this is our bounty. We came too far to let you poach it,” he added to Yates and Carpenter.

  Silva stared at them, uncomprehending. “Bounty?”

  Murphy was still looking him over. “No mistake.” He snorted. “Pretty and arrogant. Under all that dirt. Didn’t say nothing about him being Mexican, though.”

  “It don’t matter. What about them two?” the shorter one asked as the third one finally caught up; he didn’t move as fast as the other two.

  “One thing first,” Murphy said, facing them. “What were y’all shooting at last night? The snake that done for him?” he asked, glancing at Rene. “You go on and put him down now.” He gestured with his gun, and they complied. Yates might’ve drawn right there, but the shorter one had gotten behind him so quietly that he hadn’t noticed. He took the gun from his holster and the rifle off his back and stepped away.

  “Where’s your shooter?” he asked Carpenter.

  “Ain’t got one.”

  “I believe you,” the man replied, looking him up and down and making a face. “What about a knife?”