Timber Gray

by Ronald Kelly

  The cowboy rolled across the floor of the upstairs porch as wooden slivers and shards of glass rained down upon him. He brought the Sharps up, poked the octagon barrel through the slats of the railing, and fired.

  Elijah Cox staggered back, momentarily stunned. The double-barreled shotgun slipped from his grasp and hit the snow at his feet. “Damn!’ cursed the bounty hunter. He clamped a hand to the side of his head and the palm came away coated with blood. “My ear! You shot off my ear, you confounded jigaboo!” Cox lost no time grieving over his loss. He drew both revolvers from his gunbelt and commenced to firing.

  The .44 Dragoons boomed like twin cannons, chewing up the railing of the banister and the whitewashed wall that lay beyond. Luke scrambled to reload the Sharps. He dropped the block of the breech, inserted a fresh cartridge, and cocked the beefy hammer. When the final shots from Elijah’s pistols rang out, the Negro got to his feet. He limped to the balcony railing and brought the Sharps solidly to his shoulder.

  The bounty hunter’s guns clicked on empty chambers. In sudden panic, he tossed them aside and went for the hideout gun he always kept concealed in the back of his waistband. But as he brought the little .41 derringer up to armslength, he knew he was too late. He saw the flash of burnt powder, heard the ear-splitting report, and felt the shearing pain of the fifty caliber bullet as it tunneled through his belly and out the small of his back.

  Timber Gray watched as Cox collapsed to the snowy earth. He held the repeating rifle at his hip and moved in closer. The bounty hunter lay on his back, twitching in agony as his life ebbed away. Blood ran in rivulets from his fatal wound and Elijah’s ugly face was as pale as fine porcelain.

  Luke limped from the front door and stood near the steps. “Is he dead?”

  “He’s hanging on,” Timber told him. “But not for very long. No man can take a fifty-caliber slug in the gut and live to brag to his grandchildren about it.”

  They both looked around as Sheriff Henry King hurried up the street with Sonny Dill following close behind. “I heard the shots clear over at the jail. What happened here?”

  “A couple of lowdown bounty hunters came to my office and tried to kill Bell here,” explained Doc Barrett, still toting his twelve gauge. “Then this fellow showed up and started shooting up the place like a madman.”

  Elijah Cox lifted a shaky hand and pointed an accusing finger at the black cowpoke. “That man’s wanted for the murder of Daniel Spencer of Durango, Colorado.” He fumbled the crumpled wanted poster from his coat pocket and handed it to the lawman.

  Sheriff King unfolded the broadsheet and studied it carefully. He glanced over at the injured Negro. “Are you Luke Bell?”

  Luke swallowed dryly and nodded in sullen agreement.

  “Yeah, and he’s worth a thousand in gold,” said Cox. Even as death approached, Elijah’s dark eyes sparkled with greed.

  King looked down at the bounty hunter and shook his head in disgust. “You dadblamed fool. Got yourself gutshot on account of a worthless piece of paper.” He wadded the poster into a ball and tossed it to the ground.

  “What do you mean… worthless?” muttered Elijah.

  “Bell here is innocent,” the sheriff told him. “Every lawman in the territory has known that for nearly two weeks now. Seems that some Mexican cardsharp got drunk and talking down in San Luis right after the mayor was killed. He got to bragging about putting a bullet to a gringo mayor and taking his gold. A U.S. Marshal named Farnsworth overheard his boasting and took him back to Durango for trial. I heard that Mex was hung in the town square Sunday before last.”

  “Then Luke is free and clear,” pointed out Timber.

  “He most certainly is.”

  Elijah’s face twisted into a mixture of agony and rage. “Why, you lousy son of a…” He started to lift his derringer, but a violent fit of coughing seized him. A bloody froth ran over his bristled chin and he collapsed… dead.

  Luke hobbled over and stared down bitterly at the man who had hounded him for the better part of a month. “I killed him because he gave me no other choice,” he told the sheriff.

  “I ain’t about to pin that on you, Bell,” assured King. “Cox was a mean and dangerous man. I figure he brought it on himself.”

  As the crowd of curious townfolk dispersed, Doc Barrett took Luke’s elbow and steered him back toward the house. “I’ve still got to finish dressing that wound of yours. And, after that, you need a hot meal and rest. A good, long rest.”

  “I ain’t gonna argue with you none,” said Luke with genuine gratitude.

  Timber turned to see Trampus standing nearby. “Where’s Avery Gimble?” he asked.

  “When he heard that Cox was shot, he jumped on Ramsey’s hoss and hightailed it back to Colorado. Turned out he was the stinking polecat I figured him to be. Didn’t even stick around long enough to give his friends a decent burial.”

  The wolfer clapped a hand on Haines’ shoulder and smiled. “How’s about joining me for a drink,” he offered as they started back down the boarded walkway of Greybull’s southern side. “I seem to recollect I’ve got a bottle waiting for me back at the Cattleman Saloon.”

  “I believe I’ll take you up on that,” said Trampus. As they made their way to the drinking establishment, the storekeeper regarded his friend with a broad grin. Things had been downright drab and depressing there in Greybull, until Timber Gray had showed up and changed it for them all. Whether he actually knew it or not, the wolf hunter had broken through their day-to-day drudgery and brought the spirit of the wild frontier back to them, if only for a short time.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Timber Gray rode into the Bighorn Mountains for the last time that winter.

  He took his slate gray roan and the two Missouri mules up the snowy passes and along the rocky ridges of Cloud Peak. Again, as had happened recently, uneasiness pressed on the wolfer’s mind. His stay in Greybull had changed him. It had eased his loneliness and lifted his spirit from the grave of his unfortunate past. Timber felt halfway torn between civilization and wilderness. He longed for the remote isolation of the lofty mountains, yet his thoughts kept returning to Trampus and the townspeople of Greybull. And, still, he found himself thinking of Lenora Cook and her young’uns. They were disturbing thoughts, having to do with family and home. And that was two things that Timber Gray had not seriously considered since crossing the Mississippi River and striking westward.

  A day’s ride took him up the winding pass to the junction at Mountain Cross. Snow packed the crossed canyons. If any of the six remaining wolves had perished beneath the crushing weight of the snowslide, that would be that many pelts the wolf hunter would be cheated of. But Timber somehow knew that – like Elijah Cox and his men – Cripplefoot and his pack had narrowly escaped the impact of the avalanche. Going back down the pass a few hundred yards, Timber found an alternate route that took him further up the sloping pinnacle of the Bighorn’s rocky face.

  He reached the hidden pocket of Wolf Gorge before nightfall. As he had feared, the wolves had come and gone. The dall sheep still hung from the twisted limb of the oak, but its torso was stripped of hide and meat. Cripplefoot and his followers had feasted well before moving onward to the southern-most peaks of the mountain range.

  For the next few days, Timber pursued his prey, finding their trail and then losing it a mile or so later. Cripplefoot was a crafty devil; an animal who sometimes moved more like a ghost than a common wolf. He went out of his way to conceal his tracks. The other five, while not nearly as shrewd as their leader, did their best to follow his example.

  The thing that Timber feared most was losing them to the vast wilderness ahead. The further south they traveled, the greater the chance of escape. Already the towering peaks and cavernous passes were giving way to wooded foothills. Soon the Bighorn range would flatten out and turn into open plains. The Powder RiverValley stretched southward for nearly a hundred miles. Timber knew if the pack reached the sprawling grasslands, they woul
d be out of his grasp for good.

  Only the burning desire for Old Cripplefoot’s hide kept the wolfer from turning back. Many times before, he had stalked the white wolf, and many times he had lost him, as had countless trappers and hunters over the last forty years. It wasn’t bagging an even pack of fifty murderous wolves that mattered now. It was Old Cripplefoot. He was the only prize that would settle the longest hunt of Timber Gray’s career.

  The days drew on, growing colder and gloomier as January ended and February began. Snow began to fall regularly, covering the rocky slopes and making the way treacherous for Timber and his horses. Slowly, his supplies began to dwindle. Soon all he would have to keep himself alive would be the two rifles and the limited supply of cartridges in his pack. But, then, the seasoned hunter had survived on less than that before, and under much worse conditions.

  The confrontation came to a head on the third day of the new month. Timber Gray awoke to find fresh tracks no more than ten feet from the smoldering ashes of his campfire. The closest tracks – and the boldest of the six – were the mismatched prints of Old Cripplefoot. Forgetting breakfast, Timber saddled the roan, readied the mules, and headed out in the direction of the wolf tracks. They led plainly along a narrow pass; one that grew steeper and more closed in as he rode onward. It finally ended in a box canyon. The dead-end gorge was a natural trap if ever he had seen one and Timber knew that he had ridden blindly into its jaws.

  There, at the far end of the canyon, stood five of the remaining pack; two she-wolves and three full-grown males. They were powerfully built and perfect examples of the timber wolf breed. Standing in a widening arch, twenty feet between each one, they snapped and growled, their silvery eyes cold and intense, trying to shake his nerve.

  Gray slipped the hitch knot off his saddle and secured the pack mules to the branches of a scraggly pine. He walked his horse further into the box canyon. His eyes moved from one wolf to the next, searching out the one he sought. Even though Cripplefoot was not among them, Timber could sense his presence. The Ghost Wolf was somewhere close by; watching, observing, testing what he was truly made of.

  “I hope you’re ready for this, old hoss,” he whispered to the charcoal roan. “Cause I ain’t exactly sure I am.” The horse twitched its ears and snorted loudly at the strong scent of meat-eating scavengers. But the sound was not out of nervousness, but anticipation. Timber Gray had known of such animals before. He had encountered many during the War Between the States. Born of noble breed and a bold heart, the gray roan was a fighting horse; a sturdy steed that would gallop to the charge and would not spook at the brittle crack of gunfire or the throaty snarl of wild beasts.

  The wolves watched him suspiciously as he rode to the center of the rocky canyon floor, closing the distance between them until only a hundred yards remained. Timber slowly reached down to the sides of his saddle. Shucking both the Winchester and the Sharps from their sheaths, he cocked the hammers and spurred the horse into action.

  The beasts lunged forward as he did. Their muscles flowed like quicksilver and their powerful jaws snapped and strained, eager to rend flesh and spill warm red blood. Timber braced the Sharps against his hip and squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom split the canyon air. The heavy- grain slug caught the largest male wolf directly in the brisket, drilling him from bow to stern. His fur matted with blood, the animal spun in mid-leap and rolled thirty feet before landing in a motionless heap on the canyon floor.

  Onward the roan charged. Timber returned the smoking buffalo gun to its boot. He lifted the repeater to his shoulder and swept its sights past the horse’s bobbing head. Two wolves veered toward him, intending to hamstring the horse and bring it down. Timber began to fire in rapid succession, working the lever as fast as he could manage. One of the beasts fell to the hail of bullets, its winter coat erupting in six bloody patches. However, the other kept on coming, despite the slugs buried in its torso and limbs. The wolfer fired until the wolf disappeared from view, darting at the legs of the gray roan. Timber thought he had failed to save the roan, but the spirited horse came through. It bucked angrily and struck out with flashing hooves. The wolf dropped in its tracks, its skull cleaved in half by the mount’s unbridled fury.

  The bearded rider surged forward to confront the remaining two. A she-wolf ran straight for them. Right when the wolf moved in, intent on stripping flesh from the roan’s nimble legs, the horse sprang, leaping completely over the snarling animal. Timber twisted in the saddle, drew his .45, and fired. The revolver’s slug caught the beast neatly in the base of the skull, bringing death instantaneously.

  Timber Gray was turning to confront the last of the five, when he was knocked forcefully from the saddle. He caught a quick glimpse of fur and flashing fangs, before he hit the frozen earth with bone-jarring impact. The wolf rolled over him as they fell, but was on its feet again and after him before he could regain his senses. His hands were empty. The revolver and the lever-action had fallen from his grasp when he hit the ground.

  The wolf was suddenly upon him, ripping, tearing into him with savage fervor. Timber kicked and lashed out, but his hands came back gashed and torn, streaming with his own blood. When the cold grip of panic finally began to overtake the hunter, his attacker made its first – and last – mistake. Its slaverous jaws clamped down viciously on Gray’s forearm, sending a lance of pain coursing through the hunter’s limb and unleashing memories of a similar attack fifteen long years ago.

  Thoughts of Chestnut Creek washed over him and he lost all control. For one horrible moment, Timber was back in the mountains of eastern Tennessee. He could feel the cool water of the stream sweeping around him as a rabid wolf tore into his flailing arm, infecting him with the germ of the mind-burning madness. Timber pushed the tormenting past aside and confronted the present. A fiery rage engulfed him; a rage sparked of hatred and loathing for the timber-bred beast.

  “I’ll not let it happen again, you filthy devil!” vowed Timber Gray. He drew the skinning knife from under his coat. “Not ever again!”

  He plunged the knife’s honed blade under the wolf’s ribs with a savagery of his very own. The animal yelped and attempted to escape. But the hunter was not through with the beast. Again and again he jabbed, slashing and gutting. When Timber finally came to his senses, the beast lay on the snowy earth, limp and lifeless.

  The hunter slipped his knife back into its sheath. Shakily, he got to his feet, grimacing in sudden pain. The bruised ribs from his brawl with Avery Gimble ached dully in his left side and his hands and forearm burned, bleeding slowly from the wolf’s near fatal attack. He found his Colt and returned it to its holster. The Winchester was beyond use now, the barrel bent at an awkward angle from its fall to the rocky earth.

  Timber stumbled toward his horse. The battle with the five wolves had exhausted him, and the aches and pains hadn’t helped matters any. He reached the horse, wrapping a sore hand around the saddlehorn to steady himself. His blue-gray eyes flashed with heated anger as he pulled the big Sharps from its boot.

  “Cripplefoot!” he bellowed. His voice bounced off the steep canyon walls of jagged shale, followed by the crisp snap of metal as he inserted a fresh round into the rifle’s breech and closed the block. “I know you’re around here somewhere, so you’d best show yourself and get it over with!”

  Silence mocked him as he waited. He stood there, alert and on his guard, the .50 rifle held expectantly in his bloody hands. Only the lonely moan of the winter wind pressed on his ears, as well as the nervous shifting of the roan’s hooves. Then a clatter of stones rolling down the steep face of the canyon wall sounded directly behind him. He whirled, lifting his eyes to the source of the noise. A crooked grin crossed his bearded face. It was the ugly grin of a man nearly consumed by hate.

  There, standing nobly atop the far wall of the box canyon, was the magnificent white wolf of the Rockies. The beast men called Old Cripplefoot.

  “I’ve finally got you, you mangy scoundrel!” rasped the
wolfer. Smoothly, he set the Sharps’ curved buttplate against his shoulder, thumbed back the hammer, and lifted the heavy barrel skyward.

  Timber Gray laughed in triumph, his eyes almost crazed in their excitement. The sights wavered, then settled squarely on the wolf’s downy breastbone. He laid his finger gently on the trigger and prepared to squeeze. But something stopped him. He shifted his gaze from Cripplefoot’s silvery chest to his massive pointed face. The old wolf’s dark eyes were locked unerringly on the hunter’s own.

  Timber knew he had him. He had only to pull the trigger to claim the ultimate prize of his long hunt. But his muscles remained frozen, as if time itself had been halted by the hand of God. He realized then that this was the closest he had ever been to the great white wolf. No more than twenty yards stretched between the hunter and his prey and, suddenly, starkly, he saw the animal for what it truly was.

  Cripplefoot was a flea-bitten shell of a wolf compared to the legend that had surrounded him for the past forty years. The animal’s white coat was patchy and streaked with age. Countless scars etched his hide, placed there by the glancing shots of a hundred mountain hunters. Timber was sure there were bullets still in the old wolf, as well as an arrowhead or two lodged beneath the skin. Cripplefoot’s right hindquarter bulged misshapenly, as if he had broken his hip years before and it had healed improperly.

  The wolf was not the ruthless, bloodthirsty beast that so many had made him out to be. No, Old Cripplefoot was just a poor shadow of the legend that had swept the Great Divide since the days of mountain man rendezvous and beaver trapping in the Yellowstone. He was just an old Methuselah of a timber wolf who appeared to be near his end, having survived the last great hunt of his existence.

  Fifteen long years of wolf-hating burnt out right then and there. Timber Gray felt the emotion fizzle and die in the pit of his soul like a lit fuse with nothing to set off. He stared blankly at the wolf’s face, searching for some trace of malice that might rekindle the hatred, but there was none. Cripplefoot’s narrow countenance showed only a weary peace.