Wolf Shadow (Wind River Book 3)

by James Reasoner

  The wolves rushed him five minutes later.

  He never knew or understood what prompted them to attack at that particular moment, which as far as Lon could tell was just like the one before. Maybe there was some sort of wolf logic to it. All he knew for sure was that half a dozen of them were suddenly bounding toward him, snarls and growls ripping from their throats as they ran.

  They probably expected him to turn and flee. Lord knew, he felt like doing just that. But he forced his feet to stay planted on the snow-covered ground and reached under his coat for the revolver with his left hand. At the same time, he was ripping the glove from his right with his teeth again. He slapped the butt of the gun into his bare palm and lifted the weapon, aiming by moonlight at the closest of the charging wolves.

  He lined the sights on the shadowy, bounding shape and eared back the hammer. Panic yammered shrilly in his ears, but he ignored it as best he could. He pressed the trigger.

  The blast of the gun was startlingly loud in the nighttime stillness. The explosion pounded Lon's ears, but he was still able to hear the yelp of pain as the lead wolf somersaulted backward and then rolled limply in the snow. Instantly, his companions were on him, fangs tearing into his wounded form, ripping flesh and splattering blood on the silvery-white ground. The wounded wolfs dying howls were cut short in seconds.

  Lon launched into a shambling run. The beasts would be busy for a while, and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. He nearly stumbled each time his left leg came down, but somehow he stayed upright and kept moving.

  The distraction wasn't nearly enough. They were after him again in a matter of moments. He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw them coming steadily closer. To his horrified surprise, there were even more of them now, at least a dozen in all. He didn't know where the others had come from. Probably, in some mysterious way he couldn't comprehend, the word had gone out that there was fresh prey in the valley, a crippled victim ripe for the killing.

  Well, those vicious sons of bitches would discover that he wasn't going to die easy!

  He stopped and wheeled around. He couldn't outrun the pack; there was no point in even trying. The gun was still in his right hand. He lifted it, aimed, and fired again. This time the shot missed, but the noise and the flash of light made the wolves shy away for a second. Only for a second, though. From the way they acted, they had faced men with guns before, and any instinctive fear they might have had had been blunted by hunger and the memory of past kills.

  Lon fired again and downed one of the wolves this time. Just like before, the wounded animal's companions turned on it, tearing it to shreds. Instead of running again, however, Lon kept shooting, emptying the Colt into the snarling, surging mass of wolves. He wasn't sure how many more of them he hit, but he was hoping that if he provided them with a feast of their fellows, they might leave him alone.

  He wasn't going to be that lucky. Several of the wolves broke away from the others and came after him again. He reached under his coat and fumbled desperately for more cartridges. They slipped through his fingers as he tried to reload and fell into the snow with little plopping sounds.

  Lon's breath whistled harshly between his clenched teeth. With a curse of frustration he dropped the gun and lifted the branch he had been using for a crutch. It became a club as he slashed at one of the wolves leaping toward him.

  The branch crashed into the wolf’s skull, but that wasn't enough to knock the beast aside. It slammed into Lon, driving him over backward. He shouted incoherently in a mixture of anger and terror and kept striking at the wolves with the branch as they closed in around him. He felt teeth rip into the sleeve of the thick sheepskin coat and tear it. The next thing to feel those teeth would be his arm, he knew.

  He kicked out at the wolves and swung the club frantically, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.

  Now that he was down, though, he knew they would sweep over him and rend and tear with those fangs until he was nothing but scattered bones and blood-stained tatters of something that had been a man . . .

  Suddenly, there was a loud roar, and one of the wolves that had been pulling at his leg was torn away. Lon caught a glimpse of a huge, furred form looming over him, blocking out the moon and stars. The thing had its arms full of a snapping, snarling shape. There was an abrupt crack—the wolfs neck, Lon realized— and then the suddenly limp creature was being flung aside.

  Another roar rolled through the valley, and furry limbs like the trunks of small trees batted wolves aside seemingly effortlessly. Lon heard them yelping in pain and fear. The predators that had haunted man's nights for centuries had run into something they were afraid of.

  Lon felt warm wetness on his arms and legs and knew the wolves had bitten him. He couldn't tell how bad the wounds were, but he was light-headed and felt a certain detachment that told him he had lost a lot of blood already. But he was alert enough to be aware of the huge creature driving off the rest of the wolves, and his brain was still working.

  The thing was a bear. It had to be a bear. Nothing else was that big and hairy. Nothing else roared like that and broke the neck of a full-grown wolf just by giving it a vicious shake or two.

  He wouldn't be eaten by wolves after all, Lon thought. He would be eaten by a bear instead.

  But hadn't most bears crawled up into their caves to hibernate by now? Fuzzily, Lon considered that point while the thing that had driven off the attackers stomped around him in a circle, waving its arms and roaring defiance after the fleeing wolves. Had to be a bear, Lon decided.

  Then, to his everlasting surprise, the bear turned to him and said in a human voice, "Howdy, son. Looks like you're hurt. You just lie still and let me take a look at you."

  Then, as the bear leaned over him, Lon's eyes rolled up in his head and he surrendered to the blackness that had been trying to claim him for the longest time.

  Chapter 3

  Frenchy LeDoux listened to the curses his boss was directing at the wind and the snow and the darkness and thought that Kermit Sawyer ought to be cursing him instead. After all, it was his fault that Lon was lost somewhere out here in the night.

  Sawyer hipped around in the saddle and lifted his voice to ask his foreman, "You sure this was the valley Lon rode up?"

  "I'm sure," Frenchy said with a nod. "He was going to drive any stock he found back out into the center of the main valley, just like we planned."

  Only they had figured that the storm wouldn't strike so soon, Frenchy thought. The other cowboys, more experienced to a man, had lit a shuck for home once they realized how close the blizzard was. Frenchy estimated that they had gathered only about half of the stock that was up here on the north range, but nobody was concerned about that now. What mattered was that when everybody rendezvoused and the rounded-up cattle were pointed south, Lon Rogers had not shown up.

  Sawyer had waited impatiently for the young cowhand, had waited until the last possible moment before turning the herd over to some of his men with orders to move them down the valley beyond the ranch house. Sawyer, Frenchy, and the remaining hands had set out to find Lon.

  That had been several hours earlier. As the snowfall grew thicker, the searchers strung a lasso between their horses, dallying a loop around the horn of each man's saddle so that they would not get separated in the blizzard. That allowed them to spread out a little, too, and as they rode up the valley where Lon was supposed to be, they called his name over and over, shouting over the wail of the wind.

  Once, Frenchy thought he might have heard some gunshots far, far away, but he decided his ears had been playing tricks on him.

  Guilt gnawed at the Cajun's insides. He had been a cowboy ever since leaving Louisiana for Texas some fifteen years earlier, when he was little more than a boy. During that time he had learned to rely on himself, had realized that if he didn't take care of himself, no one else was likely to. But Lon had never learned that lesson. Lon was young and green, and Frenchy never should have sent him up this vall
ey by himself.

  It wouldn't do any good to torture himself with such thoughts, Frenchy knew. But when he looked at Kermit Sawyer, saw the lines of worry on the man's face, and heard the strain in his voice, he knew he had let his boss down. Mr. Sawyer might deny it, but he felt differently about Lon than about any of the other hands.

  Sawyer would have backed any man who rode for him right to the hilt, would have sided with any of them in any sort of fight. That kind of loyalty was second nature to the cattleman. But it wasn't the same with Lon. If anything happened to him, it would be a hard, hard blow to Sawyer. Frenchy figured he knew why, but that was none of his business.

  Anyway, he was the foreman of this crew and Lon was his friend besides. That was more than enough reason for him to be out here in this storm yelling himself hoarse.

  By the time night had come on and darkness had settled down over the rugged landscape, despair was tugging at Frenchy. It didn't help matters when Sawyer called a halt and said, "We'll have to turn around soon, otherwise we won't make it back to the ranch ourselves."

  "We ought to keep lookin' a little while longer," Frenchy insisted. "Could be Lon's right close."

  Sawyer nodded bleakly. "Could be. But in this storm we might not ever know it."

  "Maybe the storm will blow over!" Frenchy raised his voice over an even stronger gust of wind.

  "Maybe!" Sawyer agreed. "We'll keep ridin' . . . for now.”

  That was all Frenchy wanted: a chance to find Lon. A chance for him to avoid having another death on his conscience . . .

  * * *

  Lon was upside down and swaying back and forth when he came to, and if there had been a damned thing in his stomach, he would have lost it right then.

  Fur brushed against his face as he swayed, and a strong, rank odor assailed his nostrils. His brain was still not working very well, but after a few minutes he figured out that the bear must have picked him up, slung him over its shoulder, and was now carrying him off.

  No, not a bear, he remembered. The creature had spoken to him. Despite appearances, it had been a man who had saved him from the pack of wolves.

  Lon’s arms were hanging down. He pulled them up and grabbed hold of the fur to steady himself. “Hey!” he croaked. “Hey, put me down!”

  The man came to a stop, grunted, “So you’re awake, eh?” Effortlessly, he bent over and slid Lon from his shoulder, setting the young cowboy upright on his feet.

  The world spun crazily around Lon, not surprising since he had gone so quickly from hanging upside down to standing again, not to mention the blood he had lost from his wounds. If not for a gloved hand that felt like iron gripping his shoulder, he would have fallen again.

  “Hang on,” the man told him. “Your head’ll settle down in a minute.”

  Sure enough, Lon began to feel a little stronger and a little more stable after a few moments, but he was still lightheaded. “Who . . . who are you?” he managed to say.

  The man was still holding Lon’s shoulder. With his other hand, he reached up and brushed back the hood of what was obviously a thick coat made of at least one bearskin. He had a thick, bushy beard and a tangled thatch of hair. In the moonlight, Lon couldn’t tell what color the man’s beard and hair were, but they were lighter in shade than the bearskin coat.

  “Name’s Yancy Rowlett,” the massive stranger said in his rumbling voice. “Who’re you, son?”

  “Lon . . . Lon Rogers. I ride for . . . for the Diamond S.”

  “Sorry, I don’t reckon I’ve heard of that spread. But I’ll take your word for it. We’re on your boss’s range?”

  Lon nodded weakly. “Headquarters is . . . about ten miles . . . south of here.”

  “That’s a far piece for a man afoot. Where’s your horse?”

  “Threw me earlier,” Lon said with a shake of his head. “Ran off. I . . . I hurt my knee when I fell, couldn’t catch her.”

  “Well, I’ll see if I can get you home.”

  Lon caught at the arm of the man who had saved him. “You have a horse?”

  Rowlett gave a humorless laugh and said, “Did have. It took a spill in some drifted snow a ways back. Broke its leg. Wasn’t nothing I could do.”

  Nothing except put the poor animal out of its misery, Lon thought. Maybe that was what somebody ought to do for him and Yancy Rowlett. There was no way they could reach the Diamond S ranch house on foot.

  But there was still the possibility that somebody was looking for them, he remembered.

  “Are we still in the little valley where you found me?”

  Rowlett nodded. “We’ve come a couple of miles from the spot where those wolves were after you, I reckon.”

  “You . . . you carried me two miles already?”

  “You didn’t look to be in any shape to be walking,” Rowlett said dryly. “Those wolves nipped you pretty good in a few places. I tore some pieces off your shirt and tied up the wounds, but that was all I could do. Once we get you back home, you’d best have somebody else look at them.”

  “There’s a doctor in Wind River,” Lon said.

  “Yeah, I heard about that town. That’s where I was bound.” Rowlett looked up and down the valley. The snow on the ground sparkled in the moonlight. “You had enough of a breather? I figure we’d better get moving again.”

  “How? I can barely stand up. After what the wolves did, on top of that fall I took, I don’t think I can walk—“

  “You don’t need to,” Rowlett said. “Here.”

  With that, he turned his back to Lon and leaned over slightly. Lon said in surprise, “You want me to climb on your back?”

  “Sure. ‘Less you’d rather I slung you over my shoulder again.”

  Lon shuddered at the memory of the sickness roiling in his stomach when he regained consciousness. “No, that’s all right. Are you sure you can carry me?”

  Rowlett looked over his shoulder and grinned. “I’m stronger’n I look.”

  Since Lon still thought the big man looked more like a bear than a human, that was saying a lot, the cowboy thought. He managed to return Rowlett’s grin and clambered up on the man’s back, hooking his legs around Rowlett’s middle and hanging on to his neck as Rowlett straightened. He got his arms behind Lon’s knees, letting them take some of the weight, then started forward, his steps a little unsteady at first before he settled into a rhythm.

  As they moved down the valley, Lon thought that if anybody could walk ten miles through the snow carrying a wounded man, it might just be this stranger called Yancy Rowlett.

  * * *

  The snow stopped and the stars came out as the clouds shredded into nothingness overhead in the night sky. Frenchy s hopes lifted with the passing of the storm. The searchers could see a lot better now, and sound would carry better, too. Frenchy slid his Winchester from its saddle-boot and said to Kermit Sawyer, "I'm going to fire three shots, boss. If Lon's close enough to hear them, he'll come toward us."

  "If he can still get around," Sawyer said, not sounding too hopeful of that.

  Frenchy wasn't going to give up, though. He pointed the rifle at the sky and fired three times, levering the Winchester's action quickly between each shot. The sharp cracks rolled down the valley, echoing back from the hills on each side until the echoes were a meaningless jumble of noise.

  The search party rode forward again. The last of the clouds blew off to the south, allowing moonlight to wash down over the valley. That made riding easier, but it was still tricky since some of the drifts were difficult to see until the riders were almost on top of them.

  A half-hour passed, then another. Frenchy began to feel more uneasy again. Just how far up this valley could Lon have come before the storm hit? It seemed like he and Sawyer and the others had already penetrated deeper into the hills than Lon could have.

  Finally, Sawyer reined up and said bitterly, "That's it. He couldn't have come this far. We might as well turn back. I reckon we've missed him somewhere along the way."

  Frenc
hy leaned forward in the saddle, every muscle tense. "I got a feelin' Lon's still around here, boss," he said. "If you and the rest of the boys want to turn back, you can go ahead, but I'm goin' to ride on a ways farther."

  Sawyer glared at his foreman. The cattleman wasn't used to having his decisions ignored. He opened his mouth to say something, but before the words could emerge, a faint popping drifted through the air. It sounded like it came from farther up the valley.

  "Gunshots!" exclaimed Frenchy, his eyes widening.

  Sawyer craned his neck and peered up the valley. "Damned if it didn't sound like shots, all right," he agreed. He reached under his coat, took out his old Colt, and triggered it three times into the air. Everyone listened intently. For a moment, there was nothing but silence . . .

  Then three more shots, still faint but maybe a little closer.

  "Come on!" Frenchy said as he heeled his horse into motion again. He wanted to send the horse ahead in a gallop, but the footing was too treacherous. His nerves chafing at the delay, Frenchy kept his mount moving at a brisk walk.

  Sawyer and the other Diamond S riders moved up to flank him, even though they had untied the rope between the saddles when the storm stopped and riding side by side was no longer necessary.

  Frenchy's eyes swept the snow-covered, moonlit landscape in front of him. After a few minutes, he spotted something moving several hundred yards away, a dark patch against the lightness. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. He kicked the horse into a trot and rode quickly toward the moving shape. Kermit Sawyer was right behind him.

  As Frenchy rode closer, the dark form somehow split into two, surprising him. He didn't slow down, however, and he increased his pace even more when he realized the pair of figures were two men, one supporting the other. Both of them were waving. Frenchy had no idea who the other man was, but he hoped one of the figures was Lon Rogers.

  "Lon!" he called as he brought his horse to a stop and swung down hurriedly from the saddle, some ten yards from the two men. "Lon, is that you?"