by Ronald Kelly
“Mr. Gray!” yelled the two youngsters as they ran to him. He put an arm around each and walked them back to the bench. Their mother sat there quietly, her face pale and her eyes regretful.
“I had no idea you were leaving today, Lenora,” Timber said. He tried to generate a smile, but failed dismally.
The woman stood, her frail hands fidgeting nervously with her handbag. “I was going to tell you, Jefferson… I swear I was. But I knew it would be so hard. For the children… and for me.”
“But where will you go?”
Lenora Cook smiled timidly. “Perhaps we’ll go back to Minnesota or settle somewhere in these parts. I hear there’s work for a widow like myself in MilesCity. The stage clerk suggests we stay at the Demorest Hotel there… until I make a decision.”
“But…” Timber started, then caught himself. He knew what he had been about to say. That those youngsters shouldn’t grow up without a father and a woman like Lenora shouldn’t try to make it without the support of a good man. But who was he to say such things? He was nothing more than a drifter; a scraggly hunter of wolves who had lived in the wilds most of his life. No, he had no right to say such things or have such thoughts for a proper lady like Lenora Cook.
He reached in the pocket of his sheepskin coat and took out a roll of banknotes. He peeled off a few crumpled bills. “Ma’am, I believe I owe you some money.”
Lenora was puzzled. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, your husband and little Paul here, they shot a few of those wolves I skinned a few days back. I figure I owe you for about six or seven of the hides at least.”
The woman pushed the greenbacks aside. “I’ll not take money from you, Jefferson Gray. If anything I should be paying you. You saved me and my children from dying out there in that godforsaken wilderness and, for that, you’ll have my gratitude and respect forever.”
Timber reddened in embarrassment and stuffed the paper money back into his pocket. “To me, that’s worth its weight in gold,” he told her. Then he frowned grimly. “But I couldn’t save Isaiah. That’s what gores me most of all.”
A shadow fell across Lenora’s face at the mention of her late husband. “Isaiah… the man I married… was lost years ago, Jefferson. He died the day that mule kicked him in the head.”
The stage clerk peered from the barred window of his ticket booth and motioned to them. “Mrs. Cook, the stage is all ready to go.”
Timber picked up their carpetbags and they all went outside together. After the parcels had been secured to the coach, the hunter stooped and looked at both children. Sarah held her china doll tightly, while Paul stood there with his broken arm in a sling and his head held high despite his sorrow.
“Now, you take good care of your ma, you hear?” Timber told them quietly. “She’s gonna need all the help she can muster and you two are just the ones who can give it to her.”
“We will, I promise,” declared Paul. He and his little sister both had tears in their eyes as they climbed into the belly of the stagecoach.
Timber took Lenora’s thin hand and helped her up. He held it a second longer than he intended to and found himself staring into soulful eyes. They stared at one another for a long moment, then Lenora spoke. “You deserve a better life than the one you’re leading now, Jefferson,” she told him. “And that life could be yours… simply for the asking.”
Timber Gray opened his mouth and, out of all the right things he could have uttered, he could only manage to come out with the wrong one. “Have a safe trip,” he said. He released her hand and she took her seat between her son and daughter.
Reluctantly, Timber closed the coach door and stepped back upon thedirty boardwalk in front of the Overland office. The driver cracked his whip and the horse drawn coach surged westward out of town. It would travel the stage road to CrystalFalls, then onward to Myer’s Junction and finally to MilesCity.
The wolf hunter stood there for a long time, feeling more alone than he had in years. He thought back to Lenora’s parting words. Had she really been offering him the chance of a better life? Surely he had misunderstood her intentions. No decent, God-fearing woman would be willing to put up with a no-account wolfer like himself.
He was in a dark mood as he crossed the slushy street to Haines’ store and, right away, he knew the only remedy for such a feeling. He had to get back up to the mountain, back to the tracking and hunting that he had been hired to do.
Timber Gray walked straight to the counter of the mercantile, not bothering to even remove his hat and coat. “Trampus, I need you to fix me up. I’ll need coffee, beans, salt pork… a couple of weeks worth. And I’ll need more ammunition. .45’s and .44-40’s.”
Trampus Haines looked at his friend over the top of his spectacles. “You going back up the mountain already?”
“I have wolves to hunt.”
The storekeeper removed his glasses and poked them in his vest pocket. “Then I’ll be going with you.”
“Afraid not, Trampus,” Timber told him flatly. “It started out as just another hunt, but it’s turned kind of personal now. What with Old Cripplefoot and all.”
“Seems to me it’s always been personal with you and those varmints, even before the Ghost Wolf. What is it between the two of you? I know you lost your family to the critters back in Tennessee, but seems there’s more to it than that. Ain’t it about time you told somebody about this grudge of yours and what’s really behind it?”
Timber avoided looking at his friend. “There is something I never told you about what happened that day on Chestnut Creek. You see, I was bitten by that wolf that I killed. And that wolf was… rabid.”
“Lordy Mercy!” said Trampus. “But I’ve heard tell there’s no cure for someone who’s been bitten by a diseased critter.”
“I’d heard the same, too. And, at first, it seemed that it was so. No more than a few days after I’d buried Rebecca and Todd, I began feeling almighty sick and dizzy in the head. Soon the illness became worse. I could eat nothing and the thought of drinking water sent me into a panic. It wasn’t long before the madness set in. I began seeing things that weren’t there. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, bathed in a fevered sweat, and see my wife and son standing at the foot of the bed. They’d just stand there and stare at me, their clothes ripped and bloody, and their throats torn out. As the disease worsened and the images grew more horrifying, my mind snapped completely. I set the cabin afire and ran off into the woods, wild-eyed and crazy.
“I don’t rightly recall much about those days of madness. Folks told me afterwards that they could hear me in the dead of night, screaming my lungs out up on the highest peak of the Smokies. I even staggered into town once, mumbling insanely and sputtering foam like the head on a beer. I had me a big ol’ tree limb in hand and folks locked their doors, afraid that I might do them harm. A couple of the best sharpshooters in those parts even considered putting me out of my misery, but nary a one could bear to do so, being good friends of mine and all.
“I surely would have died of that godawful sickness, if I’d not come upon an old Cherokee medicine man who had stayed on in the mountains after his people had been forced to walk the Trail of Tears. I was beyond knowing anything then. I collapsed at the edge of his camp and he took care of me. He tied me to a sourgum tree for my own good. Then he brewed some sort of concoction made out of berries and roots, and poured it down my gullet, though my belly could scarcely endure it. It was a month after I’d first been bitten that I awoke, weak and shaky, but thinking clearly. It wasn’t long before that Indian had me up and healthy once again. But there was one thing he couldn’t cure me of and that was my hatred of wolves. The very name of the beast sent me into a rage and still does. The only thing that seems to keep me from returning to that awful madness is the destruction of the creatures. And so I’ve spent the past fifteen years with my gun primed and loaded, itching to put a bullet into any wolf that chanced to cross my path.”
After he had fin
ished his painful story, Trampus could only stand there and shake his head. “I do declare! I never knew it went that deep, my friend. I figured we all thought you to be a little touched in the head, hating wolves that much. But I can see your reasons now.” He turned and began to gather the supplies Timber had requested. “But if you go riding for Cripplefoot, you’d best take care. That critter is bad medicine. You could find his teeth in you before it’s over with.”
Timber chuckled. “He already got the ear,” he said, pointing to the missing lobe. “He’ll not get a chance to claim another piece of me without one hell of a fight.”
Trampus Haines grinned beneath the shaggy droop of his mustache and began to pack the vittles in brown butcher paper. If a wager on Old Cripplefoot’s fate had been made, he would have bet a twenty dollar gold piece right then and there. For if any man alive could lay to rest the legend of the Ghost Wolf, it was the man who stood across the counter from him.
Chapter Nineteen
Solitude.
Every man, no matter how reserved or rambunctious, needs a little every now and then. Some men find it in books, some in hard work, others at an empty table in the dark corner of some smoky, cowtown saloon. For Timber Gray solitude meant riding where few men cared to roam. He felt that lonesome peace as he made his way through the wooded foothills east of Greybull and back into the mountains from which he had come. But this time the cleansing isolation came less easily than usual. Spending a week in town had changed him, spoiled him for human companionship and the sound of a friendly voice. Every time Timber passed a familiar bend in the trail, he found himself thinking of his journey with the Cook family and that, in turn, reminded him of Lenora and the children.
With two fresh pack mules and the slate gray roan, he ascended the slopes of the Bighorn, his eyes searching for the first sign of wolf tracks. The thick stands of pine, cedar, and fir thinned as the hills gave way to the mountain range. The stony peaks reared above him and the trail was lined with snowy boulders and the gnarled stumps of weathered trees. The great pinnacle of Cloud Peak loomed a few miles in the distance. Although he couldn’t say for sure, Timber had a strong feeling that Cripplefoot and the remaining members of his pack were up there somewhere, holed up in one of the many canyons or gorges.
He found day-old tracks as he prepared to make camp for the night. They encircled the meatless bones of a hamstrung deer; their last kill before heading further westward. Putting beans and coffee on to boil, Timber constructed a shelter between two leaning boulders and picketed his animals nearby. One of the pack mules toted the wolfer’s provisions, while the other awaited the burden of future hides. The pelts that Gray had previously claimed were now locked in the storeroom of Haines’ market until he got back with the final ten.
The following day, Timber Gray started for Cloud Peak. He took WillowPass into the high country, aware that heavy drifts from the blizzard might make the way impassable at times. But, fortunately, he had no trouble getting to where he was going. Morning drew on into afternoon, followed by evening and the cooling of nightfall. The tracks of the ten were still clear to see. Gray knew he would have to make better time if he was to catch the pack before they reached the tail-end of the Bighorns and vanished across the open plains of the Powder RiverValley.
The hunter found them early the next day. He had left the close confines of the pass, traveling along the snowy rim of the canyon. The wind was strong and frigid there, and no trees grew on the rim to cut the sharpness of the mountain breeze. Timber Gray was considering going back down into the pass, when he heard the sound of wolves ahead. Further he rode, until he stood upon the rocky lip of a box canyon. Securing the horses at a distance, Timber took his saddlebags and rifles and crawled along the rim. He found a clear spot just above the canyon floor where he would be well hidden from the pack below. Only a sheer drop of two hundred feet separated the hunter from his prey, so he had no trouble seeing what they were up to.
Ten wolves occupied the canyon. Some worked off a recent meal of elk, while the older wolves, Cripplefoot included, lounged beneath a twisted willow tree. Two males were busy running a long-eared jackrabbit, more out of mischief than hunger.
Timber crouched on the ridge for a long moment, watching the pack below. To someone who knew nothing of wolves, their actions would have seemed peacefully innocent at that moment. But Gray knew the beast better than he knew most men. Wolves were like the rest of God’s creatures in many ways. They raised families and lived to a ripe old age, active in the hunt until the pack weeded the feeble from the fold. But they had a dark stain on their souls; the hunger, the savage bloodlust of a devil. In the progressive expansion of the West, wolves were considered more than killers. They were regarded as a natural catastrophe, like storm or flood. Many a cow had fallen to the fury of the animal, as well as a few good men. It was when the wolves’ appetite and wanton need to kill reached such extremes that cattlemen and townspeople hired hunters and trackers… men like Timber Gray.
Taking his time, the wolfer checked his Winchester, then the big Sharps. Both guns were fully loaded and ready to do their job. He settled himself at the lip of the canyon, then took the buffalo gun and sighted down the heavy octagon barrel, searching for his first target of the day.
He knew the initial shot would be the crucial one. It always was where large numbers were concerned. The exit of the box canyon was only fifty feet from the nearest wolf and, when Gray pulled that gun’s trigger, they would be out of his range and down the pass in only a matter of seconds.
Timber knew his most promising mark would be the wolf nearest WillowPass, but he just couldn’t resist the temptation that lay, apparently unconcerned, beneath the denuded limbs of the twisted willow tree. With a tight grin on his bearded face, Timber settled his iron sights on Old Cripplefoot, aiming at the white wolf’s skull, right between the eyes.
He was on the verge of squeezing the trigger, when Cripplefoot’s ears perked in sudden alertness. The wolf lunged from his spot in the snow just as the 50-caliber slug drilled a large hole in the trunk of the tree. As the shot echoed through the canyon like the report of a cannon, the others of the pack followed their leader, heading for the pass that continued further up the rocky mound of Cloud Peak.
“How the hell did he know?” Timber cursed, tossing the Sharps aside and grabbing up the repeater. Standing atop the rim, he brought the Winchester to his shoulder and levered the first cartridge into the breech. Cripplefoot was already gone, as well as a few others. He picked off a wolf as it reached the mouth of the pass, hitting it directly behind the left ear.
Two more wolves fell to .44 slugs. The impact sent them rolling, one hitting the hard wall of the canyon with bone-shattering force. Four more wolves lunged for the pass entrance, almost at once. Timber fired again. A bullet hit a male in the thick fur of its neck, shattering the vertebrae and dropping it instantly. They were all through but one now and it only had a few feet to go. Timber fired just as he reached the crevice. The rifle’s lead barely missed its mark, skimming across the wolf’s hindquarters, drawing blood, but not fatally.
Timber Gray stood quietly on the snowy ridge, letting the last of the gunshots fade in his ears. The entire barrage had taken less than ten seconds and, yet, he was exhausted. Grimly, he totaled his kills. Four wolves lay sprawled on the trampled snow of the canyon floor. Not as many as he had hoped for, but it still whittled the pack’s number down by a considerable few.
He untied his animals and descended into the box canyon. After eating a brief meal of salt pork and hardtack, he busied himself with the wolves at hand. It took him an hour to skin out the four and lash their hides to the mule. After that, he returned to the fire, poured himself one last cup of coffee, and thought about Old Cripplefoot and the surviving five. He knew where they were going. They would be heading further up the pass to a spot called Wolf Gorge. The gorge was actually a small valley nestled midway on the elevation of Cloud Peak. There was water there, all year round, as well a
s plenty of game. Many a wolf had seeked refuge in the gorge, as well as men running from the law.
Few knew how to reach the mountain haven. Having traveled the Bighorns before, the wolfer not only knew the location of the gorge, but had discovered an unknown shortcut that would get him there hours ahead of the pack. All thoughts of Greybull and the Cooks driven from his mind, Timber Gray prepared his outfit for travel. In his mind, he was already beginning to concoct a fool-proof trap for Cripplefoot and his five followers. A trap that would require a little ingenuity, as well as a little luck.
Evening was falling upon the mountain when the bearded hunter reached Wolf Gorge. The entrance to the secret canyon was well hidden and anyone unaware of its location would have passed it by, unsuspecting, and continued on up the trail. Two jagged boulders leaned toward each other, making a natural entrance just high enough to accommodate a horse and its rider. The crevice was concealed with thick brush and scraggly evergreens. The heavy powdering of snow furthered the illusion of a solid canyon wall.
The sky was awash with soft colors as the sun set far to the west. The gray roan was apprehensive at first as his rider urged him toward the thick growth, but he moved forward as he discovered a clear opening beyond the thicket and smelled the promising scent of clear mountain water. The mules followed passively. One carried the canvas pack of supplies, while the other toted the four wolf pelts and a bighorn sheep. Timber had shot the ram back down the trail a piece, intending to use it as bait for his trap.
Once inside the hidden gorge, Timber sat in the saddle and studied the canyon. It was scarcely five hundred yards across on all sides, its walls craggy and steep, except for the one directly opposite the entrance. There, above a thick grove of pine and spruce, was a rocky shelf and the dark opening of a small cave. A clear stream of pure mountain water cascaded down the rocks of one wall; ice melted from the lofty slope of Cloud Peak itself. It collected in a large basin near the pine grove. Timber led his animals there to be watered.
