by Ronald Kelly
“I’m sorry, preacherman,” whispered Timber, gently prying the rifle from the man’s blue fingers. “So damned sorry.”
Abruptly, the boy came to mind. Where was Paul? Surely he was still alive, for Gray had heard shots only a few minutes before and they had been from a .45 pistol and not from Isaiah’s rifle. The wolfer trudged around the rear of the covered wagon to where the canvas covering was drawn securely over the lip of the tailgate.
A single wolf lay near the rear wheels. A flap of canvas still hung between its clenched jaws. A bullet hole glistened above the animal’s left eye where Paul had shot it with Timber’s revolver. Without hesitation, Timber pulled himself onto the tailgate and stuck his head through the laced canvas opening.
He was greeted by cold darkness and the crisp click of a gun’s hammer being cocked. “Hold on, partner,” he told the boy. “It’s just me.”
Paul Cook’s frightened breathing sounded from the far corner of the wagon bed and he sobbed in relief. “Mr. Gray! You’re back!”
Timber Gray climbed further into the wagon and laid his rifles aside. Paul tumbled forward and they met in a clutching embrace. Timber could feel the dampness of the boy’s tears through his shirtfront and he felt relief at having gotten there in time… for the boy’s sake, if not for his father’s.
“Are you all right, son?” he asked, looking the frightened boy in the face.
“Yes… but Pa… Pa’s dead!” he cried. “He shot four of those wolves, but this big one came out of nowhere. A big white wolf with a limp.”
Timber knew the animal well. “Cripplefoot!” He spat the name out as if it was some foul cussword.
The wolfer wanted to say something more to Paul, something to console the youngster and ease the grief he must be feeling, but he knew there was no time. “We’d best get going whilst we can, Paul. What about the mules? Have the wolves gotten to them yet?”
“They tried, but I ran them off.” Paul held up his pistol. “Even shot down a couple of them.”
“Good for you,” said Timber. Together they crawled over the Cooks’ jumbled possessions and reached the front of the wagon. Timber cocked both his rifles and leaned them against the wagon seat. Then he and Paul took their places and gathered up the ice-encrusted reins of the mule team.
“What about Pa?” asked Paul as Timber whipped the reins and drove the team out onto the old stage road.
“We’re gonna have to leave him for now, son. But don’t worry. I promise to come back for him. I swear he’ll have himself a decent, Christian burial.”
The hunter’s promise calmed the boy. Timber turned his attention back on the swirling darkness that stretched ahead of them. Black forest reared on both sides of the trail, thinning as they descended the foothills toward the open expanse of the BighornValley. It was slow going as they made their way down to Greybull, but the team moved at a sure and steady pace. Isaiah Cook had done a fine job with the triangle harness, distributing the burden of the wagon equally among all three mules.
Then, as they reached a sharp bend in the trail, Timber saw half a dozen forms dart into their path. As the team and its wagon reached the turn, the wolves ran alongside, biting and snapping at the hooves of the Missouri stock. One wolf leaped in and nipped the lead mule’s ankle, drawing blood and pain, before a flashing hoof nearly decapitated the pesky beast. The dead wolf rolled off into the darkness, while his five brethren continued to run the team into a frightened frenzy.
Timber handed Paul the reins. “Here. Keep them in the middle of the trail if possible. I’m gonna do me some sharpshooting.”
The wolfer took his Sharps and cocked back the hammer. Lifting the big gun to his shoulder, he picked his first mark. With a thunderous report, the 50-caliber let loose with its single load. A large wolf at the left collapsed, its spine blown in half by the heavy grain bullet. Timber still wore the cartridge belt over one shoulder. He plucked a fresh round from it and quickly reloaded. A second shot from the buffalo gun took another wolf’s head clean off. The downed animal tumbled beneath the mule team and was trampled into the churning snow beneath their hooves.
Three more to go. Timber got them with the Winchester, levering rounds into the breech as fast as he could fire them. One by one, the animals fell to well-placed .44 slugs. Every hit was a fatal one and the hunter knew there would be three more hides to skin out when he made it back into foothills. Or if he made it back, Timber thought grimly.
Onward they drove, down the curving trail to the snow-blanketed valley below. Once, Timber glanced back past the side of the wagon and saw wolves following them. He couldn’t say for sure, but it looked like the remaining number of the pack. Rather than try to risk his balance and shoot at them, he decided to outrun them, or at least attempt to. Greybull was not far away. He could see the fork of the two rivers ahead as the wagon charged down a steep grade toward town.
“We’re gonna make it, Paul,” Timber called over the howl of the storm. Then he turned his eyes back on the snowy trail and grabbed for the rifle once again. Something was moving out in the darkness ahead of them. More wolves? If they were, Timber swore he was ready for them. He levered a round into the repeater’s breech and rested his finger tentatively on the trigger.
But as they neared the approaching forms, he recognized them as riders. The townspeople of Greybull were coming to their aid. There were a dozen men in all, armed with rifles and scatterguns. Barbers, storekeepers, and businessmen powered their mounts forward, passing the wagon and heading after the now retreating pack. Timber heard an arsenal of guns go off and he even saw one oldtimer ride past with a Colt Navy pistol in each hand.
A lone rider pulled up along side the slowing wagon and Timber saw that it was his old friend, Trampus Haines. “We’ll run these critters back into the hills, Timber,” he yelled. “You get on into town, but use some caution. The bridge is all iced over and it’s mighty slippery!”
“Much obliged, Trampus,” returned the wolfer as he took the reins from the boy and drove the mules past. He threw one last glance back and saw Haines galloping off after the others, a long-barreled Peacemaker in one hand.
A few minutes passed. Then the trees thinned and he saw the sturdy timber bridge that spanned the river. On the far side, stood the dark buildings of Greybull. Slowing the team, he intended on driving the wagon across carefully. Trampus had been right. There was a glassy coating of sheer ice on the planks of the bridge floor. And that was enough to unnerve any man, especially with the cold depths of the Bighorn River coursing swiftly underneath.
But as they started across the bridge, only a few yards from safety, Timber Gray heard a throaty growl in his ear. He jerked his head around to see the lean countenance of a white wolf staring at them from the opening in the canvas directly behind them. It was Old Cripplefoot! He had been in the wagon since they had left the roadside clearing. The wolf’s eyes seemed to sparkle with triumph as his fangs snapped out and snagged the lobe of Timber’s right ear.
“Dammit!” growled the hunter, pulling back the reins before remembering exactly where they were. The mules attempted to stop, but their shod hooves did nothing but slip and slide on the icy boards of the bridge. The lead mule fell and was trampled by the others of the team. Abruptly, the wagon turned sideways, angling toward a railing of the bridge. If they went through and over the side, they would be lost.
Timber forgot about Cripplefoot and grabbed Paul by the arm, holding the barrel of his Sharps in the other hand. “We’ve gotta jump, Paul. Right now!”
The posse of Greybull’s citizens were returning down the trail, when they saw the covered wagon crash through the side railing and plunge into the frigid depths, dragging the last two mules with it. “Lord Almighty!” proclaimed Trampus, and they all rode down to the bridge together.
When they got there, they sat on their horses and stared silently over the side at the rushing water. No sign of wagon or mule team could be seen. “Done swept a mile or so downriver, I’d say,” voice
d the oldtimer gravely. “And you said Timber Gray was driving that there wagon, did you, Trampus?”
Haines removed his hat, as did the others. His lean, mustachioed face bowed in sadness and he nodded. “Yes, he was. And not a finer wolfer ever there was in the whole blamed territory! He’ll be sorely missed, old Timber Gray!”
Then, out of the darkness, came a voice like that of a ghost. “Save your eulogies, Trampus. The only thing I’m ailing of is a busted knee and it ain’t serious enough to go burying me over.”
The riders turned their startled eyes down the length of the shadowy bridge to where Timber Gray stood, bruised and battered, using his Sharps for a makeshift crutch. Paul Cook stood beside him, cradling a broken arm, but very much alive.
“Well skin me and nail my hide to the smokehouse door!” said Trampus.
“I surely thought you’d done yourself in this time, Timber.”
“Quit your jawing and give me a hand,” said the wolf hunter. “The boy here has a busted arm. We need to get him over to Doc Barrett’s as soon as we can.”
“We’ll see he gets there,” said a robust man Timber recognized as Sheriff Henry King. The lawman lifted the boy into the saddle and rode across into town. The others followed, leaving Timber and Trampus standing on the bridge alone.
“What’s eating at you, Timber?” asked Haines as the bearded man stood at the broken railing, staring solemnly down into the dark, churning waters.
“Trampus… it was Old Cripplefoot,” he told the storekeeper. “He was there, right in the wagon with us.” Timber reached up to the side of his head and his fingertips came away wet with blood. “The mangy critter took off a piece of my ear, too.”
“Well, then I reckon he went down in the river with the whole kit and caboodle,” said Trampus. “Got what was coming to him, I’d say.”
Timber Gray lifted his eyes and, slowly, a grim smile crossed his lips. “Afraid not. Take a look over yonder.”
Trampus followed his friend’s gaze to the far bank of the river. There, on a timbered ridge, stood a lone wolf as white as the snow itself. For a long moment it merely stared at the two men. Then it let out a triumphant howl that surpassed the fury of the winter wind. A gust of snow blew across the river and, when it cleared, Old Cripplefoot was gone.
“The Ghost Wolf,” muttered Trampus, his voice soft with wonder.
And, for one brief moment, Timber Gray was almost willing to agree.
Chapter Eighteen
Three days after the blizzard had blown further southward, Timber Gray felt the urge to ride again. He had grown bored of sitting around the potbelly stove in Haines’ Mercantile with nothing better to do than play an occasional game of checkers and swap old stories with some of the locals. There had been some talk about bounty hunters riding hellbent through the Bighorns; Elijah Cox and his boys it was said. It was also said that Jess Ramsey was with them. Timber hadn’t known who the boy with the fancy gun was during their encounter in BurialPass, but he did now. Ramsey had a reputation as a gunfighter with a quick draw and a sure aim. Folks said the boy from Alabama had gunned down a dozen men during the past couple of years and the wolf hunter knew that he would try his hand at him, if they ever crossed paths again.
Timber’s knee was badly bruised, but nothing had been broken and he was bound and determined to not allow it to slow him down. The first day the clouds cleared and the sun peeked over the broken range of the Bighorn Mountains, he knew that it was time. Buying a couple of good pack mules and a spirited, gray roan from the livery stable, Timber outfitted himself with a new Winchester, ammunition, and a few days worth of supplies.
He did not ride alone. Trampus Haines, who was an old friend from his buffalo hunting days, saddled himself a horse and took his worn Henry repeater from the rack over the door. As he tugged on his hat and headed for the door, Haines’ sour-faced wife protested his leaving.
“You took something mighty precious from me when we married, woman,” Trampus told her sharply. “And, despite your infernal nagging, I intend to have it back, if only a few days!”
Myrtle Belle Haines gave him a scolding look, but did not press the matter any further. Trampus had been a better husband than most and she knew, deep down, that he deserved his time in the mountain air.
The storm had dumped several feet of heavy snow on the wooded slopes of the foothills and even more on the higher peaks. It took some doing, but the two men made it up the old stage trail in a day’s time. As they traveled the abandoned road, they discovered the frozen carcasses of eight wolves half-buried in the snow. On up the trail they found the lone pack horse that Timber had cut free several nights before. The animal lay dead in a snowdrift, the eighteen wolf pelts still lashed securely to its back. It had frozen to death in the midst of the snowstorm, unable to find sufficient shelter even in the dense trees that grew so abundantly on the mountain’s western face.
They reached the clearing by nightfall. The following morning, Timber searched the area near the pine grove. After he and Trampus had picked through the heavy drifts, fourteen more wolves were uncovered. Timber thought back to that frantic night and realized just how very lucky they had been. It was nothing short of a miracle that they had made it out of the foothills alive.
The bodies of the twenty-two wolves were frozen solid, so the two men gathered wood and built a roaring fire. One at a time, the wolves were hung over the flames until they thawed enough to be skinned. That night, over hot coffee and beans, Timber Gray totaled his kills since leaving the Whittaker ranch. Forty wolves had fallen to the wolfer’s guns. That meant there were still ten left up there in the Bighorns, including the most valued prize of all… Old Cripplefoot.
Before leaving the next day, they readied Isaiah Cook and lashed his blanketed body to a mule’s back with rawhide and rope. They had found the young preacher where Timber had left him that fatal night. His dark cassock was stained with blood, his eyes glazed over with frost, and his pale hands forever clutched a Winchester rifle that was no longer there.
“I didn’t much cotton to all his ravings about hellfire and damnation,” Timber told Trampus. “But if the good Lord gives merit to bravery, then this man’s last hour surely bought him a mansion in heaven.”
The storekeeper nodded respectfully. “You ready to ride?” he asked from the back of his spotted sorrel. There was a flush of new vitality in the man’s face, a sparkle in his eyes that had not been there days before. The ride into the mountains had done old Trampus a world of good, thought Gray.
“I reckon so.” But as the two riders started leisurely back down the trail for Greybull, Timber turned in his saddle and stared off toward the rocky face of the mountain range. A sound had whistled in his ears for a brief instant. Perhaps it had only been a cold mountain breeze moaning through naked trees or the call of a snow hawk on a distant peak. But he could not help thinking that it was the howling of a wolf, beckoning to him from the lofty wilderness above the timberline.
“Soon,” he promised beneath his breath. His gray eyes lingered a moment longer, then turned back to the winding trail ahead. Yes, soon he would return and the confrontation would take place. The final confrontation between the hunter and the hunted.
A day or so later, Timber Gray was sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and staring idly through the icy panes of Haines’ store window. The iron stove was toasty warm and the store smelled of tanned leather, spices, and kerosene. Trampus stood behind the long oaken counter taking inventory on a recent shipment of canned goods, while Myrtle Belle was busy with her sewing in the back room. Timber could hear the steady cranking of her new-fangled, foot-pedaled sewing machine as she worked on a blue calico dress.
Directly across the street from the mercantile stood the Central Overland Stage office. That morning, a flurry of activity was going on outside. A bright red Concord coach with gold trim stood before the office entrance. Men loaded the coach’s front and rear boots with baggage and mail, while Able Jo
nes from the livery harnessed a six horse team into place.
“Hey, Trampus,” called Timber, tossing his smoke to the floorboards and grinding it underfoot. “I didn’t know the Overland was heading out this morning.”
“Yep,” said Haines. He parked his stub of pencil behind one reddened ear and joined his friend at the window. “The stage road going up to CrystalFalls is clear now and they’ve got a week’s worth of mail to deliver. Heard they’re taking some passengers with them, too. Lenora Cook and her young’uns.”
Timber Gray was surprised by the news. “I wasn’t told about their leaving,” he said, trying hard to hide the disappointment in his voice.
Trampus shrugged. “Maybe she thought it best to leave quietly. You might not have noticed, old friend, but that lady has taken quite a shine to you. So have the children.”
The wolf hunter said nothing. Secretly, he felt the same way they did. Since leaving Tennessee, every child he had come across had brought nothing but bitter memories of the son he once had. But Paul and Sarah had vanquished those harsh emotions and raised his paternal instincts once again. Since coming to Greybull, they had looked to him as a substitute father of sorts. And Lenora… well, there was something much stronger between he and Lenora, even though neither of them had found the courage to make their feelings known as of yet.
“I’m going for a walk,” Timber said. He took his coat and hat from a hook by the door and slipped them on.
“All right,” replied Trampus, returning to his work. “You be sure and tell Mrs. Cook and her little ones goodbye for me.”
“I’ll do that,” agreed Timber. He closed the door behind him and stepped off the boarded walkway into the dirty snow of the street.
Jones and the other men greeted him as he walked past. He threw up his hand in return, then strolled down the walkway to the stage office’s double doors. He saw Lenora and the children sitting in the spacious waiting room as he came in, all decked out in their best traveling clothes. Their baggage, with their few remaining possessions, sat at their feet.
