Timber Gray

by Ronald Kelly

  “Aw, hell!” said the hunter. He shifted his sights a fraction and fired. The big 50-caliber slug hit the cliff beneath the wolf’s feet, sending sharp fragments of shale spinning into the cold air of early February. Cripplefoot did not move a muscle. He stood his ground and continued to stare his pursuer down.

  Timber let his buffalo gun sag until it hung heavily in his hands. “I reckon we’re alot alike, old fella,” the man said with a sigh. “Excepting maybe I’ve got a few more years on me. And it sure would be a shame to waste them alone in these mountains with nothing better to do than hunt critters for a few dollars bounty.”

  There seemed to be an expression of agreement in Cripplefoot’s ancient eyes. Perhaps the wolf knew the kind of life Gray had led, for he too had lived through similar times. For the most part, he had ignored his own kind and wandered the mountains and prairies in search of something that all creatures, man or beast, hoped to someday attain. A healing of the wounded soul or, simply, peace of mind.

  Standing there in that lonely dead-end canyon, Timber Gray knew that both of them had finally reached that goal… and had paid a bitter price in getting there.

  “Go on now and git,” Timber called up to him. “Before I change my mind.”

  The white wolf remained on the ledge for a final moment, then turned and disappeared. The sound of his leaving lingered in Timber’s ears and then gradually faded into silence. The hunter’s eyes remained fixed on the lip of the shale wall for a long time, for he knew that he would never see Old Cripplefoot or the likes of him ever again.

  Turning back to the wolves that laid around the canyon floor, he set to the unpleasant task of skinning and preparing the hides for the trip back to Greybull. The end of a hunt had always been a cause for celebration for the man called Timber Gray. But this time there was much more to look forward to. He had discovered a fresh trail in life, one that would hopefully be less rocky and less lonely than the one he had journeyed for so very long.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Evening was descending on the town of Greybull, Wyoming when Timber Gray climbed down out of his saddle and tethered his horse to the hitching rail outside the general store. Taking his skinning knife, he cut the wolf pelts off the pack mule. The warm glow of a kerosene lamp welcomed him as he slung the bundle of hides over his shoulder and opened the door of Haines Mercantile.

  Trampus wasn’t there, but someone was busy behind the counter, stocking the shelves. Surprisingly enough, it turned out to be Luke Bell who glanced up at the hollow jangle of a cow bell over the door. Luke looked to be in good health and high spirits, decked out in a white shirt, bowtie, and clerk’s apron.

  “What’s an ornery cowpoke like you doing here?” Timber asked, shaking the black man’s hand.

  “I decided to take up a new line of work,” Luke told him. He found his walking cane and limped from behind the store counter. “Had me a little money left over from last summer’s drive, so I bought into Trampus’s store as a partner. Thought it was about time to stick to one spot for a change. Time to settle down.”

  “I know exactly what you mean, Luke,” said Timber. He took his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket and rolled himself a cigarette. “What about the cattle business? Won’t you miss it none?”

  “I suppose I will. But now I’ve got me something rock steady. Good neighbors, respectability, and some solid roots to put down; things mighty rare for a man of my race. Anyhow, no decent cattleman would have need of a crippled cowhand on his payroll.”

  Timber followed the new storekeeper back into the stockroom. Luke unlocked and unbolted the pantry, where the other wolf skins laid in a side bin. The hunter tossed the remaining five on the heap. They would stay under lock and key until it was time for Timber to saddle up and head north for MilesCity.

  “Where’s Trampus this evening?” asked the hunter.

  “He’s over at the stage office,” Luke replied, slipping the skeleton key back into his shirt pocket. “The evening stage just came in a while ago and he went over to pick up the mail.”

  “I’ve got business over yonder myself.” Timber slipped his hat back on and stepped into the cold twilight of the February dusk. With a deep breath, he crossed the street to the Central Overland. He had given some things serious thought coming down off the mountain and knew that he would have to take the first step if he was to make a fresh start.

  “Timber!” greeted Trampus as the wolfer shook off the cold and stepped inside the stage office. “How’d you make out up on the Bighorn? Did those dadblamed wolves get a taste of your lead?”

  Timber nodded. “All except one.”

  Haines’ smile turned into a sour frown. “Old Cripplefoot?”

  “The one and only.”

  The storekeeper shook his head in bewilderment. “I told you that wolf was bad medicine. Just a wailing wisp of a ghost, that’s all there is to him.”

  Timber stepped over to the counter where Cecil Thurman, the stage clerk, stood. “Is that telegraph up to sending a couple of messages?” asked the hunter.

  “The lines were iced over last week, but the weather’s warmed up a mite since then. It should be in good working order by now.” He took a pencil from behind his ear and poised it over a pad of lined paper.

  “Both of these go to MilesCity. The first wire goes to Louis B. Whittaker. Write it: LOU… GOT FORTY-NINE OF THE FIFTY. WILL BRING THE HIDES TO YOU IN THE NEXT WEEK. HAVE MY BOUNTY READY, AS WELL AS A GOOD STIFF SHOT OF THAT FANCY FRENCH LIQUOR. And sign that TIMBER GRAY.”

  Cecil nodded, jotting down the words to be sent. “And the other one?”

  Timber felt all hot under the collar and nervous. “Make the second one out to Lenora Cook in care of the Demorest Hotel.” The hunter hesitated, then went on. “Word it: LENORA… WOULD LIKE TO TRY FOR THAT BETTER LIFE, IF YOU FEEL THE SAME WAY. WILL BE IN TOWN SOON FOR YOUR ANSWER. You can sign that one JEFFERSON GRAY.”

  Trampus gaped, his jaw nearly dropping to his shirtfront. “Now, don’t tell me the old loner is finally getting hitched and settling down!”

  “I’m hoping to if she’ll have me,” Timber answered, his face reddening in embarrassment. “Besides, I reckon it’s about time for me to stop running wild and start living again.”

  “I’m right proud for you,” said Trampus, pounding his old friend on the back. “How’s about coming over to the house and sitting down to supper with us. Myrtle Belle is fixing fried chicken tonight.”

  “Sounds mighty tempting,” Gray admitted. “But tonight I’m not much in the mood for company. I’ve got me some thinking to do before I leave for Montana in the morning. Gotta put some things straight in my mind, like where I’ve been and where I’m going.”

  “I understand and don’t blame you,” said Trampus. “But you’re certainly welcome to breakfast tomorrow morning. How does eggs and smoked ham sound to you?”

  Timber shook his friend’s hand warmly. “Just so Myrtle Belle cooks up a passel of her homemade biscuits to go with them,” he said with a smile. Then the two parted company; Haines heading back to the store and Gray walking in the direction of the Cattleman Saloon.

  It was a Friday night and the place was packed with men, drinking and smoking and losing their hard-earned pay at poker. Timber Gray stepped up to the bar and caught Sonny Dill’s eye from where he poured a drink at the end of the counter. “What’ll it be, Timber?” he asked.

  “A bottle of your best sipping whiskey and a glass.”

  The bartender set a bottle and shotglass before him. “Anything else?”

  “Just a corner table to sit at till closing time.” The hunter paid the barkeep, took his bottle, and found himself an empty table near the back wall.

  Timber settled down in a creaky hardwood chair and poured his first shot. He paid no one any mind, until two hard-looking characters left the bar and ambled his way. Soon they stood before his table, beer mugs in their hands.

  “Would you be Timber Gray?” asked the taller man.

&n
bsp; “Yes.” He eyed the two suspiciously. “Why?”

  “We heard you went after Old Cripplefoot and lost him,” said the other, a squat man with a wiry growth of rusty red beard.

  Men had brought his failures to light before and their joking has usually ended in fistfights sparked out of anger and bitterness. Timber didn’t know if the motive of these fellows was the same as all the others. If they intended to taunt the old wolfer into another barroom brawl, they would walk away disappointed that night. Timber Gray would not be enraged by their laughter any longer. No, all he wanted to do was drink his whiskey and be left alone.

  “Yes, I lost him again,” said Timber. He lifted his eyes to the pair. “What of it?”

  “We’d just like to sit and hear your story.” The lanky fellow smiled, his face friendly enough. “Me and Rusty here, we tracked the critter for nearly two years, but never had no luck with him. I got me a perfect shot at him once and, heaven help me, I swear I got him clean through the heart! But he was gone when we got to the ledge he was standing on. Just a few specks of blood on the ground and nothing more.”

  The two hunters stood there expectantly for a long moment. Then Timber laughed and poured himself another drink. “Pull up a chair, boys, and sit a spell.”

  The remainder of the night would be spent drinking and swapping tales of the Ghost Wolf. On about closing time, when the chairs were set upon the tables and Sonny was wiping down the bar for the night, they would hear the banshee howl of a lone wolf drift from the distant peaks of the Bighorn Mountains.

  And they would trade a mutual smile of grudging admiration and toast Old Cripplefoot, the only wolf who had escaped the vengeful gun of Timber Gray.

  The End