Timber Gray

by Ronald Kelly

  “Let me take a look at it,” he said gently, taking the girl’s arm from where it lay cradled in her mother’s lap. He lifted the torn cloth of her nightgown from the bloody flesh and examined the wound. It was a nasty one to be sure, reaching from the child’s wrist, clean down to her elbow. The lacerations were deep and ragged, but no bones showed and none seemed to be broken. Nevertheless, the wound was bleeding profusely and he knew they had to stop it fast.

  “I’ll admit, it’s a bad one,” Timber told them. “But she’ll be okay if we can stop the bleeding and get her down to Greybull tonight. There’s a doctor there and he should be able to fix her up.”

  “But how can we stop the bleeding?” asked Lenora. She was still afraid, but had regained most of her composure.

  Timber thought for a moment. “Make a sling out of cloth and make it a sturdy one. Then put Sarah’s arm in it and pack snow around the wound. The cold should slow the bleeding, at least until we can get to town.”

  “I understand.” Lenora’s face was grim as she went to work.

  The wolf hunter turned to Isaiah and Paul. “You two come over here with me. We’ve gotta talk.”

  The three walked through the blowing snow to Gray’s shelter. He knelt down, found his saddlebags, and took a box of ammunition from one pouch.

  He placed the box of .44-40’s in Isaiah’s hand. “Reload and pocket the rest,” he instructed. Then Timber thumbed some fresh rounds into the Colt and slung the cartridge belt with the .50 brass over his right shoulder.

  “Okay, this is how we’re gonna work it,” he began, looking the preacher square in the eyes. “I’ll saddle a couple of the horses and take your wife and daughter down to Greybull. Shouldn’t take us but a couple hours, even in this blizzard. You take those mules and hitch them up to the wagon. There’s only three left, but you were a farmer once and should know how to rig up a triangle hitch. I’ll be back for you as soon as possible, but I have an idea those wolves will be coming back even sooner. That’s why I’m leaving you the rifle. And, mister, you damned well better intend on using it.”

  Isaiah Cook’s eyes were strong and unflinching. “I believe the good Lord will forgive me this one transgression, given the circumstances.”

  Timber didn’t think protecting one’s self and the life of his son could be considered much of a sin, but he left it at that. As the reverend went back to the wagon to prepare the team, the wolfer called the boy to his side.

  “Paul, do you know how to shoot one of these?” he asked, taking a spare revolver out of the saddlebags.

  The boy nodded. “I’ve been watching you. You just cock the hammer and

  pull the trigger after you aim, don’t you?”

  “That’s right. Now, I want you to stick that in your belt and I don’t want you to draw it unless you absolutely have to. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Gray,” replied the nine-year-old. He held the six-shooter with a mixture of pride and respect.

  Timber dropped a handful of .45 cartridges into the boy’s coat pocket. “I doubt if you’ll need these, but they’re there if you do.” In the back of the wolfer’s mind, he knew Isaiah Cook might very well lose his nerve or get a crazy notion in his head, and Timber didn’t want the boy to be left alone with no way to protect himself.

  “You go help your pa with the mules now,” he said. “And don’t worry none. I’ll be back for y’all shortly.”

  “I’m not afraid,” declared the boy bravely. He patted the scarred handle of the Peacemaker. “Not anymore.” Then he headed across the snowy clearing to help his father.

  Dragging a saddle and blanket in each hand, Timber Gray went to where the horses were picketed. They had been left alone and unharmed during the wolves’ nocturnal attack. He saddled and bridled his gelding and, after cutting the supplies off one of the two pack horses, saddled it as well. Before leading them off, he cut the tether of the remaining horse. If the wolves did return that night, at least the animal would have a fair chance at making a run for it.

  “Are you ready, Lenora?” he asked, leading the mounts toward the rear of the Conestoga.

  “Yes,” she replied. She tightened the knot of the snow-laden sling and lifted the child into her arms.

  “You can ride, can’t you?” Gray asked as an afterthought.

  “As well as any man,” Lenora told him flatly. There was an expression of cold determination on her face as Timber helped her and the child into the saddle.

  Timber Gray climbed onto the black gelding. Rather than returning the Sharps buffalo gun to its boot, he laid it, loaded and ready, across his lap. He didn’t much like riding the wolf-infested foothills with only a single-shot rifle, but he knew the Reverend Cook would have better luck with the lever-action than with the .50 breechloader.

  Isaiah left his work long enough to walk over to the two horses. He looked up at his wife and, for a brief moment, Lenora saw the man she had married ten years ago. “May the Lord ride with you, my dear,” he said softly. Then he turned his eyes to the wolfer. “Take care of them, Timber Gray.”

  “I surely will,” he promised. “I’ll be back for you and Paul as soon as I can. And don’t forget what I said about using that rifle.”

  “I won’t,” said Isaiah. He canted the .44-40 to one lean shoulder. The preacher was without his black hat and the crescent scar stood out on his flushed scalp like the mark of a doomed man. He turned and started back to work on the wagon hitch.

  “Let’s ride,” Timber called over the howling of the wind. “But be careful. We’ve got a ways to go.”

  Lenora nodded and pulled her bonnet and winter coat tightly around her. Sarah had ceased her weeping and now sat silently on the saddle in front of her mother, a heavy wool blanket pulled around her shivering form.

  Urging their mounts onto the deserted stretch of the old stage road, they lit a shuck through the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains and toward the darkened town of Greybull.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The town of Greybull started out as nothing more than a lone trading post during the years that men trapped the YellowstoneValley for furs. The few who dared brave the land of the Arapaho and Shoshone would lash their season’s worth of pelts to birchbark canoes and ride the Bighorn River to Abner Halston’s trading post. There they could trade their beaver skins for gold, supplies, or strong drink.

  Later on, as easterners sought to settle the western frontier, the fur trade bottomed out in the Yellowstone. The wild men who had lived as trappers and hunters finally took brides and settled down. They built up the area around Halston’s post and, little by little, formed the town of Greybull. These days, the town prospered mostly from mining and from cattlemen who brought their herds to the BighornValley to graze in the grassy pockets along the western face of the mountain range.

  Timber Gray and Lenora Cook reached the settlement an hour after leaving the roadside camp. Their progress had been better than Timber had first expected, mostly because the wind of the blizzard was to their backs and the trail ahead was not yet snowbound. The two late night riders came down out of the foothills, crossed the timber bridge that spanned the icy torrent of the Bighorn River, and trotted their weary horses down Greybull’s main street.

  The storm had reached a howling crescendo, blowing snow and ice against every clapboard wall and into each shingled crevice. Lenora pulled the frost covered blanket tighter around the shivering body of her daughter as their guide led the way between the double rows of dark buildings.

  The first two structures in town were a livery stable and, across from it, a nice two-story house painted as white as the surrounding snowfall. A painted shingle hung over the steps of the front porch, proclaiming J.W. BARRETT – PRACTITIONER OF MEDICINE. Timber and Lenora reined to a halt before the doctor’s residence and tied their mounts to a hitching post out front.

  As Lenora carried Sarah up the icy path to the front porch, Timber Gray cast a quick glance down the shadowy street. It had been a while since he
had last seen Greybull, but then five years had not changed the town very much. Among the businesses along the street were saloons, shops, and even a hotel and gambling house. Trampus Haines’ mercantile was still there, having replaced the old trading post years ago.

  Gray made it to the house just as Lenora began to knock sharply on the curtained pane of the front door. Soon, they heard footsteps coming down the stairway and saw the faint glow of a lamp inside. The door opened, revealing a dark-haired man in his thirties, clean-shaven and wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. Behind him, holding the lamp, was his wife, a petite woman with honey-blond hair.

  “What may I do for you folks?” the man asked, shifting an inquisitive stare from Timber’s rugged appearance to the pale frailness of Lenora Cook.

  “Are you Doc Barrett?” Timber asked hurriedly. “If so, we’ve got a hurt girl here that needs your help.”

  “Please, bring her inside.”

  They stepped into the foyer, shaking off loose snow and glad to be away from the constant barrage of the winter storm. Doctor Barrett led the way to a small examination room, furnished with glass-paned cabinets and a long, padded table. “Mary Beth, would you start a fire, please?” the young doctor requested of his wife as they passed through a modestly furnished parlor.

  “I’ll do that, ma’am,” volunteered Timber. “You might be needed to help out with the child.”

  The woman nodded and joined her husband in the adjoining room, closing the oaken door behind her. Timber removed his Stetson, knocked the ice off its brim, and set it on the mantle of the fireplace. He took a few sticks of kindling from the wood box and tossed them into the sooty hearth. After searching the unfamiliar surroundings, he found a box of long stick matches and soon had the fire roaring. Then he settled down into a sturdy, leather-upholstered armchair to wait.

  The waiting seemed like an eternity, although it could have only been a short time. Sitting before the warmth of the fire, Timber felt like drifting off to sleep, but he knew that he must stay alert. Lenora and Sarah might be safe in the arms of civilization now, but he knew Isaiah and Paul were still up there in the blizzard. Perhaps the wolves had already returned. If that was so, then that would mean they would have their hands full. With a groan, the wolf hunter left the comfort of his fireside chair and reached for his hat.

  It was at that moment that Barrett left the examination room, wiping his hands with a towel. “Sarah is going to be just fine,” he told the bearded man. “The wound was deep and she lost some blood, but packing the wound with snow stemmed the bleeding. It was good thinking on your part.”

  Timber Gray slipped his hat on and retrieved his Sharps from where it leaned beside the front door. “I just figured to stay till I found out that Sarah was okay. Now I’ve gotta get back up the mountain. There’s a couple of folks still up there and close to thirty wolves.”

  “Wolves,” echoed the doctor, recalling the nasty gouges of Sarah’s wound. “Then you’ll need some help. Give me half an hour and I’ll round up some men to go with you.”

  “Ain’t got the time to waste, Doc,” Timber told him flatly. “I’ve gotta ride now. But I’ll tell you what you can do. Just tell old Trampus Haines over at the general store that Timber Gray is riding for trouble on the old stage road.

  He’ll move like a scalded hog in getting up a posse.”

  “I’ll tell him,” promised J.W. Barrett, pulling a heavy coat over his flannel nightshirt.

  “Jefferson,” called Lenora from the door of the examination room. “Bring Paul back to me safely… and Isaiah, too.”

  “I’ll surely do my best,” he told her, then ducked back into the swirling snow. He and the doctor parted company at the street, Timber untying his black horse and climbing into the saddle, while Barrett headed down the sheltered walkways toward Haines’ store.

  “Let’s go, boy,” he said and spurred the gelding back up the frozen trail for the foothills. With one hand holding the reins and one resting on the stock of the buffalo gun, he rode. The familiar clinch of fear built steadily in the pit of his gut. He feared for the lives of Isaiah and Paul. He also feared that the blinding drift of the snow and the savage wind could very well throw his shot off a few fatal inches, and end up getting someone killed for the mistake.

  But, strangely enough, the only thing Timber Gray didn’t fear were the wolves themselves. The only emotion he reserved for the marauding pack was one of pure hatred. A hate, he swore, that would burn like wildfire until he had purged the western wilderness of every last wolf he could set his sights on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Timber heard the gunshots as he neared the trailside camp. They echoed in quick succession, but the high pitch of the howling wind and the mad sweep of the blizzard distorted the reports, making them seem distant and muffled.

  The black gelding knew where they were headed and, sensing its rider’s urgency, moved forward in a gallop. Timber let it take the lead, for the snow was coming down so thick that he could scarcely see a yard ahead of him. The horse made good time, surefooted and confident, despite the scent of wolf that permeated the air.

  Timber strained his numbed ears, but could hear only the deafening rush of the storm. The shots had ended. The hunter’s sheepskin coat was bundled tightly about him, but the sharpness of the wind penetrated the heavy clothing and chilled him clear to the bone. Ice began to form on the graying bristles of his beard, while his hat brim sagged with the weight of accumulated snow.

  For a moment, as he rode along the frozen trail, Timber thought he heard a low growl from up ahead. The wind continued to whistle and whip around his ears and he dismissed the sound as nothing more than the storm. But he didn’t take any chances. He cocked back the big hammer of his Sharps as the gelding neared the grove of firs and the clearing it enclosed.

  “Isaiah!” he yelled against the roar of the wind. “Isaiah… where the hell are you?”

  No one answered. He reined his horse off the trail and suddenly heard the snarling again, this time sounding like more than a trick of the wind. A dark mass hurled itself out of the blizzard. The horse reared with a frightened cry, then writhed in sudden silence as the timber wolf bit deeply into the animal’s gullet. With a curse, Timber lifted his rifle. But as the wolf’s fangs ripped through muscle and arteries, the agony grew too much for the gelding. It bucked wildly, eyes wide and glazed with panic. The hunter felt himself falling backward, spinning out of the saddle.

  He landed hard on his back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. He sat up, aware that his hands were empty. The Sharps had fallen from his grasp and he had no earthly idea where it was.

  “You’d best get a hold of yourself, Timber,” he told himself as he staggered to his feet. “If you don’t, you’re gonna die out here in these woods for sure.”

  Timber’s horse stumbled a few yards away, the wolf’s death hold draining the animal of its strength. The horse collapsed with a heavy thud. Dark blood gushed from its mortal wound, staining the newly-fallen snow an ugly crimson. Timber slipped the thong from his Colt and laid his hand on the butt. He was about to draw and fire his weapon, when a savage growl sounded directly behind him.

  The hunter began to turn, but the wolf was already upon him. The weight of the beast hit him squarely in the back, knocking him sprawling into the snow. He felt the wolf’s claws dig into the material of his coat, ripping, searching for his flesh. The warm wetness of slaver splashed down Timber’s bearded cheek as the wolf’s teeth gnashed dangerously close to his neck. With a shudder of revulsion, he reached back, caught a fistful of fur, and yanked the animal completely over his head. It landed heavily on its back, its eyes burning like coals, its fangs snapping and straining for the softness of human flesh and the coppery taste of blood.

  Before the wolf could get to its feet, however, Timber reached beneath the folds of his coat and drew the bone-handled knife from its sheath. With a wolfish grin of his own, he raised the knife and plunged its slender blade into the anima
l, just below the brisket. He twisted the knife downward, slicing and hacking through the wolf’s innards with a viciousness born of pure contempt. After the last twitch of life left the wolf, he withdrew the skinner and returned it to his belt.

  Timber got to his feet. He walked a few faltering steps and saw where his horse -- the magnificent black gelding with three white stockings – laid cold stone dead in a snowdrift. Two wolves tore at the horse’s body, bloodlust flashing in their eyes.

  He felt for his pistol and found it still in the holster. “You just killed a damn fine horse for nothing, you filthy devils!” he gritted. He put a .45 slug through the right eye of one and another through the temple of the other.

  Spotting the Sharps lying a few feet away, he retrieved it and brushed the loose snow from its receiver. In the swirling paleness of the snowstorm, he caught quick glimpses of low forms darting from tree to tree, encircling the clearing like an advancing army. Timber knew they had to get out of that forest and fast. He saw the dark hull of the wagon with its milling team of nervous mules and started toward it.

  Where is Cook? he wondered, beginning to think that perhaps the preacher had high-tailed it into the woods, leaving the boy to fend for himself. “Isaiah… where in Sam Hill are you?”

  He moved on through the deepening drifts and abruptly stumbled over the partially covered carcass of a dead wolf. He cast his eyes over the frozen ground and saw three more wolves lying dead in the snow. Then he spotted another body and his heart sank in anger and despair. Isaiah Cook laid there, his darkly cassocked body sprawled near the wagon’s front wheels. The wolves had done him in swiftly, dragging him down by the legs and then tearing into the tender flesh of his belly and throat.

  The young minister had not died in the dishonor Timber Gray had expected of him, however. Cook had died bravely, the Winchester held firmly in his stiffening hands. The four wolves nearby were testament to his courageous stand.