by Ronald Kelly
As the wolfer picketed them near the basin edge, he remembered the last time he had stayed there in the gorge. It had been the spring of ’76 and he had tracked a lone grizzly there, one that had killed a couple of Harve Patterson’s finest breeding studs down in the settlement of Bingham. It had been breathtakingly beautiful then, the trees budding with new shoots and the canyon floor lush with spring grass and a rainbow of fragrant wildflowers. His springtime thoughts did nothing more than make him feel the winter chill even more, so he pulled his fleeced collar tighter against the wind and tramped through the snow to his mules.
He went to work immediately, cutting the ram from the swayed back of a mule and dragging it to the center of the canyon. There, he tied the sheep’s two hind legs together and, pitching the rope over the limb of a gnarled oak, hefted the carcass off the ground. He tightly secured the rope, letting the ram hang there, its curved horns barely touching the frozen earth. His bait set, Timber did his best to cover his tracks and went back to conceal his horses.
He led the three animals into the shadowy depths of the pine grove. He unburdened them and tied them where the mountain breeze could not spread their scent and alarm the approaching wolves. Timber took his rifles and saddlebags, then started to the far wall of the canyon, where the cave was located. His plan was to hole up in the cave and await the pack’s arrival. Then, as they tugged and tore at the fresh meat of the dall, he would pick them off one by one. Timber had used the tactic several times before and had always been successful with it.
The hunter was about to leave the pine forest, when he spotted something in the snow at his feet. There had been a light dusting the night before and a thin coating of virgin frost layered over the old snow of last week’s blizzard. Digging the heel of his boot into the snow, he uncovered a splattering of frozen blood.
The discovery gave Timber cause to worry. Shifting his rifle to a more comfortable position, he started forward. Suddenly, he spotted something lying near the boulders at the base of the canyon wall. He found it to be a horse. It was a sturdy buckskin mare with an old Denver cow saddle strapped to its back. The animal was dead, having taken an ugly dose of double-ought buckshot in the left side, just above the saddle’s stirrup. But the wound had not killed the horse immediately. No, it was plain to see that the buckskin had been fired upon somewhere outside the secret pocket of Wolf Gorge and its rider had managed to get her to shelter before it collapsed of blood loss.
Looking down at that nasty wound in the horse’s ribs, Timber thought of the sawed-off shotgun he had seen hanging from Elijah Cox’s saddle a week or so ago. The bounty hunter’s ten-gauge would have produced such a devastating wound and Timber was betting that it had. That meant the horse had been carrying someone the bountymen were gunning for. And Timber had a pretty good idea who that man was.
The hunter spotted a speckled trail of blood on the snow that had settled in the cracks of the boulders, leading up to the hole in the wall. As he climbed the rocks and neared the cave entrance, Timber slung his saddlebags and Sharps over one shoulder, and cocked his Winchester. Not knowing exactly what to expect, he fisted his gloved hands around the stock of the repeater and stepped into cold darkness.
Chapter Twenty
When it came to unexplored caves, Timber Gray seemed to draw nothing but bad luck. On dozens of occasions, he had found himself walking into the black depths of some mountainside crevice. Sometimes he found them damp and empty, except for a few bleached bones or fragments of broken pottery; the legacy of a long forgotten occupant. But the majority of his cavernous ventures produced some type of unexpected danger. He had encountered all manner of creature, from hibernating grizzlies to mountain lions to renegade Indians. Once, when crossing the Ozark Mountains back in northern Arkansas, Timber had bedded down and awakened the next morning to find himself surrounded by a family of razorback hogs… and they hadn’t exactly been in a neighborly mood.
The cave on the craggy wall of Wolf Gorge was a different story however. He had made the small cavern his home several times in the past, while on hunts or just passing through. The extent of the cave was etched in the wolfer’s mind like a permanent map, one that he referred to now as he moved further into the dusty darkness. It was seven feet from granite floor to ceiling, maybe eight or nine in width. The length of the cave was sixty feet and it crooked into an elbow bend at one point. There the cave gave way to a small chamber where a man could stretch out and build a fire without fear of the flames or smoke being seen from the outside.
Although few knew of it, there was an opening further down the passageway, barely large enough for a good-sized man to squeeze through. Beyond that, on the far side of the gorge, was a hidden pass that led straight down the mountainside to Barren Creek. Many an outlaw had used the escape route to dodge lawmen that were getting too close for comfort.
With his finger resting lightly on the trigger of his rifle, Timber Gray moved further into the cavern, pausing only to let his eyes grow accustomed to the pitch darkness. As he neared the bend in the passageway, he caught the bitter scent of woodsmoke from a fire that had been quickly smothered. Timber turned the corner with the barrel of the repeater directed ahead of him. He squinted against the inky blackness, his eyes barely making out the dim red glow of warm embers on the cavern floor. A small, almost undetectable sound echoed from the far side of the smoldering fire. Without hesitation, Timber shifted his Winchester toward a shadowy form.
“Who’s there?” he demanded. Silence. Then, after a long moment, the voice of a man answered. “I have a pistol here. Aimed right at you.”
“And I’ve got a Winchester on you,” informed the wolfer calmly. “So why don’t you just start that fire back up, before one of us gets hurt.”
Timber Gray listened to the man’s ragged breathing as he thought over his visitor’s suggestion. Finally, there was motion and a flame from a sulfur match brought the gray ashes and loose wood blazing back to life.
The two men looked each other over thoroughly in the flickering glow. Each was suspicious, their weapons held steadily upon one another. As curious eyes studied Gray’s rugged form, the hunter also took time to size up his adversary.
The man was a Negro in his late twenties, lean in build and muscle. He wore the timeworn clothing of a cowboy; flannel work shirt, cowhide vest, woolen britches, and muddy, thorn-scarred boots. The left leg of the man’s trousers was saturated with dried blood. A dirty red bandana was bound securely around the fellow’s wound, just above the knee. He wore a gunbelt of tanned leather, from which the man’s Remington revolver had been drawn.
Timber recognized the face immediately and recalled where he had seen it last. A roughly sketched portrait on a crumpled wanted poster.
“You’re Luke Bell, ain’t you?”
The cowboy’s eyes were as steady and cold as the pistol in his hand. “What’re you? Another bounty hunter?”
Timber shook his head. “I’m a hunter, but not of men. Wolves are my game, as well as bear and cougar when they get to troubling folks.”
They stared at one another in silence for a long moment. The nervous edge had eased a bit, but still their guns remained cocked and aimed. Timber’s eyes once again settled on the man’s wounded leg. From the amount of blood lost, he figured Bell had been hit with buckshot rather than a single bullet.
“Did Elijah Cox do that to you?” he asked.
“So that’s who he was,” replied the cowhand in sudden realization. “Knew he was bounty hunter, but didn’t know his name. I reckon he and those others have been tracking me for the better part of a month now, from Colorado all the way up here to Wyoming.”
“They say you killed a man.”
Luke Bell spat in disgust. “That’s a damned lie if there ever was one. Just because I played a few hands of poker with the gent and had some hard words with him afterwards, they done gone and pinned his murder on me. Well, it ain’t true! Not one blasted word of it! I’d tell Elijah Cox that, too, if he’d sto
p shooting at me long enough to listen.”
“I don’t think Cox is the least bit interested in whether you’re innocent or guilty, Bell,” Timber told him. “It’s that thousand dollar price on your head that’s got him all riled up.”
The black man nodded. “That and the chance for an old-fashioned lynching, maybe?”
Timber agreed. “You may be right about that.”
Luke lifted his Remington and settled its sights on the wolfer’s shirtfront. “You sure you ain’t figuring to claim that bounty for yourself?”
“Like I told you before, my hunting’s limited to wild critters, not outlaws. The name’s Timber Gray and all I want to do is share this here cave for a while. Then I’ll be on my way.”
The fugitive returned his pistol to its holster. “I know of you, Mr. Gray. In fact, I was hired on at the Triple Bar Ranch near Santa Fe when you bagged that cougar back in ’74. Biggest cat I’d ever laid eyes on.”
“And one of the meanest,” added Timber, canting the Winchester to one shoulder. “Got a mess of scars across my ribs to prove it, too.”
Luke grinned at the recollection. “Yeah, you rode onto the ranch with that big wildcat bound to the back of a mule. No bullet in him, just a knife wound from belly to brisket, as pretty as you please.”
The wolfer was flattered at the cowboy’s remembrance, even though the kill hadn’t been quite as clean as Bell thought. A vicious swipe of the lion’s paw had sliced him up badly and knocked the gun plumb out of his hands. He nearly had to gut the big cat with his hunting knife before it finally gave up the ghost.
Timber leaned his rifle against the cave wall and crouched beside the warm fire. “How long have you been holed up in here, Luke?”
“A couple of days maybe. But I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Ain’t had a bite to eat since yesterday morning and this wound is surely paining me something awful.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” proposed the hunter. “Why don’t I go round up some supplies and fix us some supper. I’ll put on some beans and a pot of coffee and you can tell me your story.”
The wanted man nodded in appreciation. “Sounds like a fair deal to me.”
Half an hour later, night had fallen. The fragrance of beans and bacon and strong black coffee filled the cavern, the rough granite walls flickering orange with the glow of the fire. Timber handed the cowboy a tin plate heaped with food. Luke wolfed it down hungrily and then started on seconds.
After the skillet had been emptied and their mugs were refilled, Luke opened up and told his tale. “I grew up on a plantation down south in Georgia. I started out life as a slave, along with my folks. Pap and Mammy were field hands, working the cotton and tobacco. I was just a child then, but worked in the stables and the barnyard mostly. By the time Mr. Lincoln freed us, I’d become quite a hand with both horses and livestock. I was fourteen years old when I took advantage of my newfound freedom and rode down to Texas to find work. It was tough going at first. White folks were still sore about losing the war and they were reluctant to hire on a black man. But I soon proved myself and was hired by one of the biggest outfits in the southwest. A few years with Charlie Goodnight made me into a top hand where cattle drives were concerned and I started hiring out to other spreads. Stuart, Whittaker, Shanghi Pierce… I’ve worked for them all at one time or another. Drew top pay, too, despite the color of my skin. That’s because I can rope, brand, and ride as good as any sagebrush veteran and shoot the head off a blowfly at twenty paces.
“I’d just finished with a trail drive down in New Mexico last fall and it was nearing winter, so I headed for Colorado, hoping to grubline until spring round-up. I stayed on with a few folks, doing odd jobs for a meal and a place to bunk. But it wasn’t long till I got cabin fever and headed for town. I had me a nice stake and was aiming to get my fill of whiskey and winnings before heading on to Montana.”
“So you rode into Durango,” replied Timber. He set his battered cup aside and fished his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.
“Yes, sir, and it proved to be my downfall.” Luke Bell’s voice was heavy with bitter regret. “After having me a couple of shots of Red-Eye, I found a poker game going on in a joint called the Golden Nugget. Only three other players sat at that table besides myself; Dan Spencer, who was the town mayor, a snaggle-toothed Mexican, and a cattleman from Denver. We played a civil game for a while, until I spotted Spencer’s bottom deal. I spoke up and told him as much. He was halfway drunk by then and called me a burr-headed nigger. Said I was sore because I lost and threatened to draw on me if I didn’t scat outta there. Now, I just might’ve chanced a gunfight right then and there. I’d heard he was a downright poor shot with a pistol, especially when liquored up. But there was the fact that he was a white man and that most of his friends in the saloon were white, too. Lucky for me, I wasn’t drunk enough to take his challenge. If I had and won, I’d found myself dangling from a length of hemp in a matter of minutes. So I skedaddled out of the Nugget and rode north the next day.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, I got to Cripple Creek and met up with a fella I’d herded steer with down in El Paso. He showed me that blasted wanted poster and said I was being sought for the murder of that cheating mayor. Seems that Spencer was found dead in an alley the morning after I’d left, his lapel sporting a new buttonhole and his gold stolen. Since we’d had harsh words over that poker game, the Durango sheriff figured me as the best suspect. So now, every lawman and bounty hunter in the territory is out to get my black hide.”
Luke looked across the fire to see Timber Gray staring at him, his face expressionless, his thoughts hard to read. “I didn’t kill that man, Timber. I’ve shot me a few rattlers in my time, but I ain’t never fired on a man in anger.”
Timber believed the young cowpoke. Since coming west, the wolfer had grown to know the men who drove cattle for a living. Some were prone to drinking and some were gun happy, but the majority were hard working, honest men. In Timber’s opinion, they were the most trustworthy breed that a man could deal with. He had banked on many a cattleman’s word and, as he shared his fire and grub with the wounded fugitive, he began to trust Luke Bell and consider him a kindred spirit of sorts.
“I reckon I got spooked after leaving Colorado,” Luke continued. “I rode north, hoping to make the Dakotas before Christmas. But then Cox and his white trash buddies started hounding my tracks and I took to the Bighorns. I thought I’d shaken them when I was heading up the pass for the gorge here. Cox hit me in the leg with that confounded scattergun of his. Hit my horse, too, but didn’t even know it till old Buck collapsed down near the pines.”
They sat there in silence for a long while. The tale had been told and now each man turned it over in his mind. “What’re you gonna do, Luke?” Timber finally asked. “Just keep on running till someone puts a bullet through your brain-pan and throws you across their saddle?”
“Hell no!” declared Luke. His eyes were bright and sharp against the contrast of his ebony face. “I’ll not have it end that way. Lord knows I’ve thought it over enough, Timber, and it seems the best thing would be to go on and turn myself in. I’d surely be facing a hanging, but I’m willing to take that chance. The running, the hiding like a frightened animal… I lived like that once, under the whip and scared of the overseer’s shadow. Now, with Cox and his men, I feel like that frightened little slave boy again. And I can’t bear the thought of spending my last hours on this earth bound by those chains again.”
As their conversation drifted back into thoughtful silence, Timber Gray found himself comparing Bell’s plight to that of another fugitive, one that had roamed the mountains for years, dodging well-placed bullets and angry posses. Old Cripplefoot had been wanted for nearly forty years now, by both the Indian and the white man. But one thing set Luke and Cripplefoot apart. The Ghost Wolf deserved the label of renegade, for his victims had been many along the trail, as well as those of the wolves that followed him. B
ut this hardworking cowboy who sat across the fire from him was the total opposite. Timber had known few black men during his life, but this one seemed as true and honest as any white man he had come across in his travels… maybe even more so. And he deserved a chance to clear his name from the crime he was accused of and continue his life… as a free man.
“Are you certain about giving yourself up?” he asked the cowboy.
Luke Bell said that he was.
“Then I think the best thing to do is to ride down the mountain to Greybull. There’s a sheriff there by the name of Henry King. He’s a good lawman and a fair one, to boot. Never heard him say a wrong word about nary a man, black or white. If anyone can clear up this mess and give you a fair shake, it’s him. I’m willing to ride down with you, if you’d like.”
Luke shook his head. “I can’t ask you to do that. It’s my trouble, not yours. Besides, you’ve got those wolves to track.”
“That pack can wait,” Timber assured him. “You’re bad hurt and need a doctor’s care. You’ll get that in Greybull, too.”
“But Elijah Cox and his men,” protested the cowhand. “They’re still gunning for me, hoping to bring me back drilled and dried. You’ll be caught in the crossfire.”
Timber Gray would not be discouraged, though. “Don’t worry about me none. This old hunter can handle himself, be it a gunfight or a barroom brawl. Anyway, a couple of those fellas swore to kill me when we met up in BurialPass. I figure we’re bound to butt heads sooner or later, and I’d just as soon get it over with.”
“All right then,” said Luke Bell, declaring defeat at his new friend’s stubbornness. “We’ll leave at sunrise.”
After a while, each man bedded down beside the fire and began to drift to sleep. Before slumber crept up on him, however, Timber Gray lay there and stared up at the cavern ceiling. He thought of the men they might happen upon during their treacherous descent down Cloud Peak. He wasn’t very worried about the Delaney Brothers or the hot-headed kid with the ivory-handled Colt. He had handled their kind before and he could do it again, if need be.
