Clint ate in silence for a while. Whether the man recognized Trapp or developed an interest in him, maybe he’d followed Jesse when he left.
“You leavin’ today?” Eddie asked.
“As soon as I finish this.”
“Didn’t get to hear any stories from you.”
“I don’t tell stories,” Clint said. “You’ll have to survive a while on the ones Jesse told you.”
He ate the rest of his breakfast in silence, and then went to the livery.
“Sure, I remember,” the liveryman said. “Great big smelly fella.”
“That’s right. Which stall was his horse in?”
“That one there.” The man pointed.
“Any horses been in there since?”
“ Nope.”
“What was he riding?”
“A big gray—not as big as yours, but a good mount.”
Clint walked over to have a look. From the tracks, he could see that the horse was very large. But he needed something more to identify the tracks for him. He took a good closer look and found a cut in the front left hoof. Nothing to make the horse lame, but just enough for him to identify the tracks. It was what he needed to be able to follow Jesse.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Takin’ your horse?”
“Yep,” Clint said. “Leavin’ today.”
“Too bad,” the man said. “That’s a fine animal.”
Clint saddled Eclipse and walked him out, then mounted up. The liveryman came out to watch him ride away.
“Do you always do that?” Clint asked.
“Do what?”
“Come out to watch your customers ride off?”
The man scratched his head.
“Ya know, I been doin’ this job for over forty years,” he said, “one place or another. But . . . yeah, I think I do.”
“Which way did the man on the big gray go?”
The man thought a moment then said, “North.”
“Thanks.”
“And so did the other man.”
“The other man?” Clint turned Eclipse back to the liveryman. “What other man?”
“The one who left soon after your friend.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Thirties, kinda thick, not as tall as you.”
“And he rode in the same direction?”
“Yup.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nope. Neither of them did. They just . . . left.”
“What’s the other man riding?”
“A mustang. Small, but nice. It could probably outlast that big gray, but not your horse.”
“Anything else you can tell me?”
The man shrugged.
“Your friend carried a big buffalo gun,” he said. “Other fella a Winchester, and a sidearm. That’s about it.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
“Good luck to you.”
Clint turned Eclipse, and rode north.
EIGHT
Jesse Trapp loved being in the saddle, especially since he’d started riding this big gray. He’d had the horse about five months now. He’d never named his mount before because he never knew when he’d have to eat his horse. Why name something you may some day have to eat. He hadn’t named this one, either, but he tended to think of him as Big Gray.
“You and me, Big Gray,” he said, “we’re gonna make us some money up in Montana. They got them a wolf that’s hard to kill. Best kind, I say. Maybe give us a run for our money, eh?” He patted the horse’s neck.
He turned and looked behind him. Although he saw nothing, he had the feeling someone—or something—was there.
“Reckon they’ll show themselves, eventually,” he said. “Got us a town up ahead bigger than that last one. We’ll restock there, get you some good feed, and me a decent steak. ’Bout the only thing that last town had was a decent whore. Oh yeah, and some fellers who liked a good tale.”
But now, Montana, and a white wolf.
The man trailing Jesse Trapp was named Cole West. Since John Henry Trapp had killed two of his brothers several years ago just because they were looting some of his traps, Cole West was determined to exact his own brand of revenge—or justice, depending on how you looked at things.
He didn’t want to kill John Henry outright, even if he had been able to find him. Cole West was a patient man, though. He’d been waiting years for an opportunity to present itself, and here it was. John Henry Trapp’s brother walked into his life, and into his sights.
All he had to do was track him, and wait for the right moment.
When Clint cleared Little Town he examined the ground, found Jesse Trapp’s tracks, and began to follow them. Along the way he managed to locate the trailing tracks, as well. One man, probably tracking Jesse rather than following him. And probably with bad intentions.
Jesse was the youngest of the seven Trapp brothers. He was also one of only two who were still alive. John Henry had spent over twenty years in prison. During that time, five of his brothers had met their maker. Two had been killed by animals—a bear, and a big cat—one was killed by Indians, one by a group of hunters (all of whom went to prison for the crime) and the fifth one had been tracked down and killed by a bounty hunter.
John Henry was the oldest of them all. When he got out of jail, John Henry had gone back to the Rockies, after he found and killed the men who had killed his wife all those years ago. He was in the Rockies now, where the law couldn’t find him, where bounty hunters still hunted for him, where his legend continued to grow.
Jesse wasn’t a legend, but he had as reputation as a brawler, a tracker, and a hunter. His specialty was hunting rogue animals—bears, cats, and wolves that got a taste of blood—animal or human—and would stop at nothing to satisfy it.
Clint had hunted with Jesse twice, had managed to hold his own. He’d also hunted with John Henry once, in the mountains. He’d hunted for animals with Jesse, for men with John Henry. He considered both men friends.
But John Henry was far from where they were going now. If Jesse needed help, it would come from Clint Adams.
Jesse Trapp rode into the town of Greybull, a town considerably larger than Little Town had been. He’d been there before on previous rides to Montana. He reined in Big Gray in front of the general store, dismounted, and entered, still wearing his buffalo skins. The people inside immediately noticed the smell.
“I’d know that smell anywhere,” said Arlo Krupp, the owner. “That you, you old reprobate?”
“It’s me,” Jesse said, “but I don’t know what no repro-whatsit is.”
“Come on over here, Jesse.”
Two women and a man left the store while Jesse approached the counter. The two men shook hands warmly.
“Sorry to cost you some customers.”
“They weren’t gonna buy anythin’, anyway,” Krupp said. “Whaddaya up to?”
“Montana,” Jesse said. “They got them a rogue white wolf up there.”
“A white?” Krupp asked. “I thought there was no such thing as a true white?”
“That’s what some folks say,” Jesse replied. “Me, when I see a white wolf, I see a white wolf.”
“So whaddaya need?”
“To get outfitted,” Jesse said, “for a hunt.”
“Well, okay,” Krupp said. “Let’s get started.
NINE
Cole West rode into Greybull, Wyoming, and saw Jesse Trapp’s big gray still tied off outside the general store.
He could have waited outside and picked Trapp off with his rifle when he came out, but that wouldn’t satisfy him. He wanted to see Trapp’s face when he told him who he was and why he was dying.
He had seen the telegraph office when he rode in. It was a block back, so he turned his horse and rode back to it. He was only about an hour behind Trapp, and if the man was getting outfitted it would take a while.
He had time to send an important telegram and then continue tracking the man.
>
Trapp looked at the pile of items on the counter in front of Krupp, who was using a stubby pencil to figure out the cost. The man’s gray hair was nearly standing up on end as he frowned at the numbers and licked the end of the pencil.
“Ammunition . . . you’re lucky I still carry fifth-caliber . . . flour, salt, coffee, beans, beef jerky, bacon . . .”
Krupp kept reading off items and adding them up. Trapp was glad he had requested an advance on his fee.
“Have you heard from John Henry?” Krupp asked.
“Not for a long time.”
“Have you tried?”
“I don’t have to try,” Jesse said. “I know where to find him. I just ain’t needed to.”
“Not for this hunt?”
“I got somebody else in mind,” Jesse said. “I was supposed to meet up with him, but I’ll bet he’s trailin’ along behind me. If you see him, let him know I’m heading north.”
“Where in Montana?”
“A place called Wolf Creek.”
“How very fittin’,” Krupp said. “Here’s your bill, old friend.”
Jesse said, “You know I can’t read, you old pirate. Tell me how much you’re overcharging me.”
He did.
“See? You’re a pirate.”
“I’m givin’ you the friendly rate,” Krupp said, laughing.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jesse took out his money. He couldn’t read, but he could count. He laid bills into Krupp’s open hand as the man smiled at him.
“You got a pack mule?”
“No,” Jesse said. “I thought I’d get one here. No point in draggin’ it all across Wyoming.”
“Good point. I’ve got a few out back. Wanna have a look?”
“Lead the way. Better to buy one from a friend, even if he is a pirate.”
“I was a pirate, Jesse,” Krupp said, “but that was many years ago, when I was at sea. Now I’m just a merchant. Come on.”
Cole waited for a reply to his telegraph. He stood outside the office. From there he could look down the street and see the gray in front of the general store. Trapp was still inside.
He’d actually sent three telegrams, and expected to hear back from all three. The men he was putting out a call to would respond immediately. And they would come, to wherever he asked them to.
“Hey, mister?” the clerk called
Cole stuck his head back inside. “Yeah?”
“First answer’s here.”
He went inside to retrieve it. “Two more to come,” he said.
“What if they don’t?”
“They will,” Cole said. “I’ll be outside.”
He stepped back onto the boardwalk and read the reply: ONE MAN ON HIS WAY; TWO TO COME.
“The old one,” Trapp said, pointing.
“Why not the young one?”
“ ’Cause I’ll be able depend on the old one more,” Jesse said. “You oughta know that.”
“Well, okay,” Krupp said. “Suit yerself. I’ll write you up a bill.”
“Goddammit, I can’t read the damn thing, so just tell me how much.”
“Come back inside,” Krupp said.
“I’ll walk the mule around to the front and meet you there,” Trapp said.
“Suit yerself,” Krupp said again.
By the time Trapp and Krupp had the pack mule loaded, Cole had the three telegrams in his pocket. All three men had agreed to meet him in Montana. He didn’t know where Trapp was heading, but if they kept going north he’d be able to meet up with his three friends.
Cole felt no shame over asking three other men to help him kill Trapp. No shame at all. In the end, the important thing was to kill Trapp. Didn’t matter how it got done.
Didn’t matter at all.
Trapp checked the lines on the mule, made sure the supplies were tied down tight.
“You gonna stay the night in town?” Krupp asked.
“No,” Trapp said. “I’ll get started and maybe camp three or four hours out.”
“What about that feller you said is comin’ to help ya?” Krupp asked. “You wanna tell me his name so I know who I’m waitin’ fer?”
Trapp mounted his gray and said, “Sure. His name’s Clint Adams.”
As Trapp rode off Krupp said, “Ya don’t say.”
TEN
It was almost dark by the time Clint rode into Greybull.
He was still following Jesse Trapp’s trail, but there was no point trying to do that at night.
He saw to Eclipse’s comforts, then got himself a room at one of the hotels. After that he went to the saloon for a beer.
As the bartender served it, he asked if there had been any sign of Jesse Trapp in town.
“Big fella, smelly buffalo skins,” Clint said. “You’d remember him.”
“I guess I would, but I didn’t see nobody fittin’ that description in here, or in town.”
“Okay, thanks.”
He nursed his beer, talked to a couple more men about whether or not they’d seen a big man in smelly skins. No luck.
He ordered a second beer and while he was waiting for it another man came up next to him. He was a skinny fellow with lots of gray hair sticking out from beneath a captain’s cap.
“Heard you’re askin’ questions about a big fella in some smelly skins.”
“That’s right.”
“Would that be Jesse Trapp you’re lookin’ for?”
“That’s right.” Clint turned and looked at him. “You know Jesse?”
“I do.”
“How about a beer?”
“Well, sure. Thanks.”
Clint waved at the bartender for another beer.
“What’s your name?” Clint asked, passing a beer over to the man.
“I’m Arlo Krupp.”
“What’s your business, Mr. Krupp?”
“I own the general store.”
“How do you know Jesse Trapp?”
“Fact is, I know Jesse and his brother, John Henry—though I ain’t seen John in years.”
“And Jesse?”
“Fact is, he was in here two days ago, gettin’ himself outfitted for a hunt.”
“He say where he was going for this hunt?”
“He said he was gonna be joined by a friend of his, Clint Adams,” Krupp said. “Would that be you?”
“It would.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . I almost didn’t believe him when he told me.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“That he was goin’ to Montana to hunt some white wolf that’s gone rogue. And that he asked you to meet up with him and help him out.”
“Well, that much is true,” Clint said. “I was supposed to meet him in a place called Little Town, but I got there late.”
“Yeah, them Trapps,” Krupp said, “they’re nothin’ if they ain’t impatient. You say you’re gonna meet up with them somewheres, you better be there.”
“I know that,” Clint said. “He outfit completely?”
“Oh yeah,” Krupp said, “he figured to ride into Montana all set for huntin’.”
“That mean a pack animal?”
Krupp nodded.
“Bought a mule off me, along with everythin’ else,” Krupp said.
“So he’ll be traveling even slower than he was,” Clint said.
“That’s a fact,” Krupp said. “You oughta be able to catch up with him pretty quick.”
“He say anything about anyone else tracking him?” Clint asked.
“No, why?”
“Well, I’ve been following his trail a few days since Little Town. Seems to me somebody else is doing the same thing.”
“Naw, he didn’t say nothin’ about nobody else,” Krupp said. “Maybe he didn’t notice.”
“A man like Jesse should notice something like that,” Clint said. “Unless he’s past it.”
“If he’s past it,” Krupp said, “maybe that wolf’ll get’im.”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “but not i
f I can help it.”
“You stayin’ the night, Mr. Adams?”
Clint nodded. “Figure I can catch up to him in the daylight,” Clint said. “Won’t be able to see his trail at night.”
“Maybe you don’t have to follow his trail,” Krupp said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe I know where he’s goin’ on this wolf hunt.”
Clint studied the man briefly, then said, “Bartender, another beer for my friend.”
ELEVEN
Toting a pack mule all over creation was a pain in the ass.
Jesse usually traveled without a pack animal. He preferred not having to load it and unload it every night and every morning. But on a hunt like this the animal would be necessary. When he got where he was going, when the hunt began, he’d have to stay on the wolf’s trail until he got it.
He was camped one night into Montana. He could feel the difference in the air—it had a cold bite to it, which he liked. His fire kept him warm enough, but the cold kept the night clear and he could see all the stars in the heavens. This was the only kind of roof he and his brother ever wanted to live under.
He took the coffeepot off the stove and poured himself a cup, scooped some beans right out of the pan, and ate them. He looked over at his horse and the mule, standing side-by-side. They seemed to be getting along just fine.
He looked out into the dark, his night vision allowing him to see just fine. If there was somebody out there, he’d either see him or hear him coming in. If he was a piece away, maybe at his own fire, he didn’t care. The only thing that concerned him was if someone was out in the dark with a rifle, taking a bead on him. Usually, though, when he was under somebody’s gun barrel or in his sights, he could feel it, and tonight he felt nothing. The big fella usually raised a fuss if man or animal tried to come near the camp.
He finished his dinner, then rolled up in his bedroll to get some shut-eye.
Cole West made his own camp, a mile behind Trapp. He was downwind of the man, so while he could smell Trapp’s fire, Trapp couldn’t smell his.
Hunt for the White Wolf Page 3
