The Wolf Pack (Cutler #1)

by John Benteen

  “Gilbert!” a man called out.

  “Jud Bobbitt?”

  “Gilbert.”

  Gilbert grinned, took out a cigarette, thrust it between his teeth. “Jerry Moss?”

  “Cutler!” the man replied sharply. Gilbert’s smile vanished. “I got three young kids,” Moss said. “I don’t want poison all over my range.”

  “Bob Shannon.”

  “Cutler. I feel like Jerry . . .”

  “Ross Marvin?”

  “If Gilbert guarantees to get the wolf, I say go with him!”

  “Harry Dolan.”

  “Cutler. I’ve seen a poisoned range, I know what it’s like.”

  “George Schmidt.”

  “Well, it’s hard to figure . . . But I’m kinda scared of that poison, too. Besides, I used to live up in Injun Territory. When Cutler was a man hunter, he never gave up until he got who he was after ... I say Cutler.”

  Fellows sucked in his breath. “Four and four, and Fairfax Randall, that jest leaves you. Looks like you got the deciding vote.”

  Fair Randall got to her feet. “Maybe I’m entitled to it,” she said. “After all, I’m the one that’s been hit hardest by the wolf because I’ve got no man to watch my herd and my line is spang up against Gustav Holz’s.” She looked from Gilbert to Cutler, and then she said, “I cast my vote for Mr. Cutler.”

  Gilbert dropped his cigarette on the floor, stamped it out with a boot. “God damn,” he rasped. “One crazy woman . . .”

  Cutler was on his feet. “Gilbert, that’s enough.”

  Gilbert stood tautly and once again his hand dropped to his gun. “Maybe you think it is . . .”

  “Out,” Cutler said. “You hear me? It’s over. Out.”

  Gilbert stared at him. “I expect I’ll go now,” he said after a moment. “But that don’t mean it’s necessarily over.” He looked around the room, his eyes slits. “You wait,” he said. “All of you, you just wait. Time’ll come when you’ll crawl to me on your knees, beggin’ me to kill that wolf.” Then he wheeled, clumped to the door, went out, and slammed it behind himself.

  Cutler stood there, barely in check. “Mrs. Randall, I’m sorry,” he said. “That a lady should . . .”

  Her laugh was a little tinny. “Don’t worry, Mr. Cutler. I’ve been a rancher too long to worry about myself as a lady. I’m glad you won. Like I said, I’ve had the most attention from the wolf. Will you use my place as headquarters?”

  “Likely,” Cutler said.

  “Jess and I’ll be riding back tonight if you’d like to go along.”

  Cutler said, quietly, “No, ma’am. I’ll stay in town tonight. I’ve got your map; I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “But the wolf—he might even kill tonight.”

  Cutler shook his head; and now he was not looking at her any longer. “I can’t help that,” he said. “I’ll start after him tomorrow.”

  Fair Randall drew herself up, her brows making a V over her magnificent eyes. “And what have you got to do in town today that’s so important?”

  Cutler met her gaze. “Two things,” he said, giving it to her bluntly. “The first one is to write a letter to Colorado. The second is to get so drunk I can’t hit the ground with my hat.”

  “So drunk . . .” Her jaw dropped.

  “Once a month,” he said. “I do it. It—helps keep things out of my mind. Then I go to work again and I never drink when I’m on a job. Thanks for your vote, Mrs. Randall. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” He nodded. “Good day, gentlemen.” And then he turned and went out the door and down the stairs.

  At the same saloon he bought another bottle, but this time he did not uncork it. Instead, he carried it under his arm as he strode toward the livery stable.

  Thirty days, he thought; that was the maximum. Even after all this time. One hell-roaring drunk would drive all the memories deep into the recesses of his brain. Then he would no longer see Doreen lying there—the bloody mask that had been her face, the mangled stump of arm, her ripped and punctured breast . . . One good drunk would cram all those ugly, unbearable pictures into a closet in his brain for just about four weeks, time enough to take the field and make a campaign against a lion or a bear or a jaguar or a wolf . . . But every night they edged a little further out, those awful recollections, and at the end of thirty nights of loneliness in the desert or mountains where wolfers and trappers had to spend their time, they were too vivid to be borne. Then he got drunk again and put them away for another month. As he turned into the alley beside the stable, he grinned sourly. All wolfers, they said out here, were crazy; he was no exception; it was just that he was crazy in a different way. He would lie in the wagon, gulp that bottle, and then, finally, he would sleep, blessedly unhaunted—

  Suddenly he heard the fearful growling, snarling, and howling of a dogfight. He forgot everything else as the noise mounted to a ghastly crescendo and he broke into a run. When he turned the corner of the barn, he saw that Big Red was on his back, tangled in his chain, and that the mastiff, freed, had him down and was going for his throat.

  John Cutler froze for one split second. The great black dog’s jaws snapped shut, slid off the leather collar of the Airedale. Then Cutler threw the bottle aside into the dust and ran forward. He was on the mastiff like a hawk.

  The huge black dog must have weighed well over a hundred pounds. Unaware of Cutler, going for the Airedale’s throat again, he lunged. Cutler picked him up, held him high, at the end of his bulging arms. The dog roared, twisted with spring steel muscles, tried to get his jaws on Cutler’s arms.

  Cutler threw him hard. The black dog hurled through the air for ten yards, landed on the hoof-packed ground. Impact knocked its wind out, but, nevertheless, dead game, it scrambled panting to its feet. Before it could come at him, Cutler had his gun out and was running toward it. The dog gathered its hindquarters, leaped, but it was too weak, and Cutler moved aside and slammed the gun butt down hard on its neck. The great black animal collapsed in a heap, flanks heaving, and Cutler flipped his gun and caught it by its grip again. He spun around. “Gilbert!” he roared.

  The apelike man took two steps toward him from the crowd of loafers behind the stable. Beneath his tan and ginger beard, his face was pale. Cutler lined the gun, insane with rage. “Goddamn you, Gilbert, you turned your dog loose on mine, chained . . .”

  Gilbert licked his lips. “Unchain him. Wait ‘til mine comes to . . . The Airedale can’t take him.”

  Slowly, savagely, Cutler grinned. “That ain’t the point now, Gilbert,” he said, easing back the hammer of his Colt. Still keeping it lined, he bent, seized the studded collar of the unconscious mastiff. The Colt’s bore never left Gilbert’s belly as he dragged the dog back to the chain from which it had been released. With sure fingers, still watching Gilbert, he clipped the chain to the collar ring, then moved away, straightening up. “That ain’t the point. The point is, can you whip me?”

  Gilbert blinked. His enormous hands clenched. “Whup you? Why, hell . . .”

  “Take off that gun,” Cutler said. “Then we’ll see if you got as much guts as your dog.”

  Now Gilbert grinned. “Guts? I got the guts.” He spat. “Hell, Cutler, you’ll think that wolf has got you before I finish with you. How you want it, fist and forehead, no holds barred?”

  “Any way you come,” Cutler replied.

  “That’s my way,” Gilbert whispered, and his hand went to the buckle of his belt. He shed his gun, handed it to an onlooker, then stepped forward. “Cutler, I’m slick . . .”

  Suddenly Cutler threw the Colt, hammer down, aside, drew his knife and tossed it after the gun. “So am I,” he roared and charged.

  Gilbert came forward, fists up, to meet the onrush. His freakishly long arms gave him the reach on Cutler, and he jabbed with a left, followed with a right, as Cutler came within his range. Cutler felt the left whiz by his cheek; the right missed completely as he dropped, came up inside Gilbert’s arms. He aimed for the mouth with his ri
ght and hit it, smashing Gilbert’s lips flat back against his teeth, which Cutler felt spring inward. Then he brought up his knee.

  Gilbert tried to fend it with a thigh, but he was too late. He howled as the knee smashed soft tissue. He rocked back, and Cutler hit him again between the eyes. Gilbert brought up hard against the back of the barn. He shook his head, and when Cutler charged in, he kicked out. His boot caught Cutler in the ribs, deflected the charge, sent Cutler spinning. Still whimpering with pain from his smashed groin, Gilbert came after him. He caught Cutler off balance, landed a solid blow to the chin. Cutler went down, and Gilbert kicked him in the ribs as he hit. Cutler rolled and came up. Gilbert tried to club his head, but Cutler fended off the double-fisted blow and rocked aside, slamming Gilbert with a left that sent him reeling up against a parked wagon, not Cutler’s. Gilbert dropped as Cutler came after him, and Cutler’s charge missed. Gilbert’s outflung hand closed over a hickory singletree, a yard long and strapped at each end with iron and a big, round iron eye. He lunged with it like a fixed bayonet, caught Cutler in the belly with that eye, drove it in deeply, and Cutler gagged as his breath rushed out. He fell down on his back, sucking wind, saw Gilbert grab the singletree in both hands, raise it high for the killing blow. It whistled down.

  Cutler rolled beneath the wagon and it missed. Gilbert raised the singletree again, but he was too late. Cutler’s hands shot out, closed around his boots, jerked. Gilbert squawked and went over on his back. The impact of his fall knocked the breath from him. Cutler squirmed out from beneath the wagon, rolled on top, seized the singletree. He wrenched it loose and threw it away. Gilbert bucked, but Cutler rode him. He wrapped his left hand in Gilbert’s greasy mane, jerked Gilbert’s head up. Then, as Gilbert battered at his shoulders, he cocked his right and drove it in.

  His fist had force enough to smash a board. If Gilbert’s hair hadn’t been jerked from Cutler’s grip, Gilbert’s jaw would have come apart. As it was, Gilbert’s teeth clicked together and his body went instantaneously limp. He was out cold.

  Cutler got to his feet, panting. Gilbert lay sprawled. Then Cutler looked at the crowd of onlookers. “Tell him . . .” he husked. “Tell him to stay away from me or I’ll kill him . . . Take him now, you hear? Take him somewhere else ...”

  The men stared at Cutler, then seized Gilbert’s limp body and dragged it down the stable’s aisle and out of sight. Cutler turned, saw the mastiff trying to rise at the end of its chain. He walked wide around it, went to Big Red, who was lunging and snapping in fury at the end of his tether.

  “All right,” Cutler said softly. “Easy. Let me see if he hurt you.”

  Fangs still bared, Red stood’ motionless while Cutler looked him over. There was no mark on him. Cutler grinned thinly. What did they say about Airedales? They can do anything any other dog can do and lick the other dog . . . The mastiff hadn’t, despite his advantage, so much as scratched Red’s hide.

  Cutler said, “Guard.” Then he unsnapped the chain.

  Red stood motionless, hackles bristling. Cutler repeated: “Guard, I say!”

  He knew that everything in Big Red wanted to go against the mastiff. But, with reluctant obedience, the Airedale leaped to the wagon seat. “Stay,” Cutler ordered. Then he limped across the wagon-yard and found the bottle he had dropped.

  Once again he walked wide around the mastiff as he went back to his wagon and climbed inside. There he sprawled out, panting, and pulled the bottle’s cork. Red would guard him, as always, while he drank; not even Gilbert, in the unlikely event that he was ready for revenge, could get past the Airedale. Cutler stared up at the dangling traps that festooned the wagon’s top. Then he put the bottle to his mouth and drank long and deeply, starting the second installment of his binge.

  Chapter Three

  Cutler, riding his bay gelding to ease the load on the mules as they pulled the wagon up the steep grade, halted at the ridge’s crest. He sucked in a breath of awe, despite his hangover, at the sight that met his eyes.

  Above him, on his left, the mountain towered, its flank barely sliced by the precarious road he’d followed. But below, the vista that rolled out before him was magnificent. A great basin rimmed by jutting hills was cleft by a swift-flowing mountain stream. Its sides were clad with juniper, scabbed here and there with rock, high cliffs, or jumbled clutter of house-sized boulders. But mostly there was grass, fine cattle range, rolling on for miles between the hills. In that vast prospect, the ranch house and its outbuildings and slowly turning windmill were insect-sized at the far end of the basin, where two mountains came together to form a jumbled, rock-studded seam.

  Cutler kept the gelding tight-reined. “Apache,” he said, his voice respectful, “this is cow country all right. Some of the finest high range I ever seen.” Then he swung down, looped the gelding’s hackamore around the horn, mounted the wagon, slammed on the brake. “And some of the best wolf country, too,” he added, as the mules, Kate and Emma, started down the slope, bracing themselves against the breeching.

  Cutler handled the wagon with consummate skill to keep it from overrunning them. Big Red trotted along behind. As Cutler worked the brake and reins and decided not to rough lock, he was aware of the terrible pain in his skull. He felt as though a clumsy Swede with a dull crosscut were trying to saw his head in two.

  The fight and that last quart of booze had done it. The chained mastiff had howled and barked all night, but it hadn’t kept him from sleeping like a dead man when the second bottle was gone. When morning came and Cutler woozily awoke, the dog was gone. So was Gilbert’s wagon, as inquiries at the livery office revealed. “Said he was headin’ for Dona Anna County in New Mexico,” the stable’s manager told Cutler. “He looked even worse’n you. And that’s sayin’ some.”

  Anyhow, he no longer had Gilbert to worry about, Cutler thought, between waves of hangover. All he had to fret over was the Victorio Wolf, Gustav Holz, whatever he was like, and . . . and, he told himself, Fair Randall. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman like her. Not since Doreen, for all his wandering . . .

  Finally the wagon reached the bottom of the grade. Cutler shoved the wooden lever and the brake stopped its metallic screaming. The mules, feeling their oats, strained at the harness; Apache snorted and loped a little ways ahead, though not out of earshot. Cutler’s outfit jingled across the basin floor; and now he himself was feeling better. Partly, he thought, it was his own rawhide constitution. But partly, too, it was the clean, sweet, crisp air of the high country, the best medicine for a hangover known to man. After another couple of miles, the pain had gone and he was back to normal once again, reading the sign as he went.

  Like an Indian, a good trapper saw what he looked at; the land was like a library, yielding volumes of information. Every creature had its preference and its way of traveling, and unless you could think like a wolf, you had no business going after one. Cutler could be a wolf when he chose, and as the mules pulled at the bit in eagerness, he read the terrain. He saw the natural draws along which a hunting wolf would travel, the high humps above them which every wolf must, by instinct, investigate before moving on, the isolated tree that had to be a urinating post, the distant pile of rocks that might conceal a den. By the time the team brought him closer to the ranch house, he had the basin fixed in his mind, and he knew the likely routes in and out ordinary wolves would undoubtedly take. The Victorio Wolf, however, was not ordinary and would not travel in ordinary ways. His habits would require slow, painstaking study.

  Finally Cutler reached the ranch road that branched off from the main one. As he drew nearer the home layout of the Rocking R, he saw that it looked less than prosperous. The small house needed a coat of paint badly, and the outbuildings were suffering for repairs. The corral posts had begun to slant and their barbed and woven wire sagged.

  Cutler frowned. From all signs, Fair Randall was hanging on by her fingernails.

  In the ranch yard, he checked the mules, jumped down. He started to call, “H
ello the house,” but before the words left his mouth, Jess, Fair Randall’s son, ran around the corner of the barn. “Mr. Cutler!” he yelped excitedly and threw himself at the trapper’s legs.

  Cutler grabbed him up, swung him high. The boy, he thought, could use a square meal . . . “Howdy, Jess. Your mama here?”

  “She’s out on the range, be back come sundown.” When Jess’s feet hit the ground, he squirmed loose, staring at the Airedale. “Oh, golly, what a dog. What’s his name?”

  “Big Red. And lemme ask you now, you got a dog of your own around the place? I don’t want Red to fight him.”

  The boy’s face turned sad. “I had a dog. His name was Spot. My daddy give him to me. Only—last week the wolf got him.”

  Cutler went rigid, and his big hand dug into the boy’s shoulder. “Wait a minute,” he said. “The wolf . . .”

  “Yes, sir. He come right up to the house in the middle of the night. Jest chawed Spot—” the boy gulped “right in two.”

  “Did he now?” Instinctively, Cutler raised his head, looked at the seam between the two mountains behind the ranch house.

  “I buried him,” Jess went on. “Mama said a funeral service and I put a cross up over where we laid him down.”

  “Yeah,” Cutler said, still staring at that V between the mountains. “That was nice of you. I reckon that made him happy. You want to meet my dog?”

  “Oh, yeah ...”

  “Then stand still. Absolutely still. Give him time to sniff you all around. Red!” Cutler’s voice crackled.

  The Airedale trotted forward. Cutler stood with one hand on Jess, rubbing his shoulder, patting his long, flaxen hair, as the big red dog circled him curiously, sniffing noisily. Then Big Red put out his tongue, licked Jess’s wrist.