Spirit Wolf (6 page)

Flynn paused a moment, remembering.

“First thing he did when he got to town was to go to the blacksmith. The smithy rigged up a little cage for Charley out of some scrap wrought iron he had, and they dropped the wolf in that. It was half dead by then. Then Charley went over and collected the bounty on the coyotes and other wolves he had killed that summer and went on a spree.

“He dragged that big white wolf with him wherever he went. He kept it in the back of the wagon covered with a tarp. Everywhere Charley went a pack of dogs followed that wagon like it was a bitch in heat, yapping and growling and carrying on. And ol' Charley sat in that din and laughed and laughed and laughed.

“It was Indian summer then, and still hot down around Billings. It must have been a hundred fifty degrees under that tarp, and Charley, he never gave that wolf a drink of water or a bone to chew on. It was pitiful, and I was sorely tempted to sneak up to that cage while Charley was getting soused and put a bullet through the wolf's brain. But I really couldn't do that down town. You never know where one of those bullets is going to go after it's done what you want it to.

“Then, too, there was Charley. He was getting crazier by the hour. Whiskey did that to him, or maybe whiskey just brought out the craziness that was in him. He'd go into a bar and buy a drink, and then start talking about the devil wolf he had out in the wagon. That's what he called it, a ‘devil wolf.' That would perk up the interest right away, and the boys would want to take a look at it.

“Then ol' Charley would say he might show them the wolf if they would buy him a round or two of drinks. Well, there was no time at all before he had more whiskey than he could ever drink. That was funny, too, because after a while, the whiskey didn't seem to matter to him. Just being around that wolf made him drunk.

“Anyway, that went on for two days, and then Charley dropped into the Stockman to start his show all over again. He was cadging drinks when this rough-looking character steps up to him. He was a trapper, and he ran dogs too. He had a few trackers and some greyhounds, but mostly he had a killer dog.

“It was a mastiff, the biggest thing I've ever seen, brindle-colored and striped like a big cat. That dog had a head on him the size of a hogshead, and it was meaner than Charley. Those greyhounds would run a coyote down and tumble it, and by the time it got back to its feet, the killer would be on it. He'd pick up the coyote and shake it like a rag doll, and it would be dead before it hit the ground.

“Well, that stranger steps up to Charley and says the wolf ain't worth a pile of buffalo chips compared to his dog, and he's willing to do more than talk and drink, he's willing to bet money on it.

“You shoulda heard the shout that went up from that bar, but Charley wasn't so drunk that he didn't take a minute to think about it, and then he agreed.”

Flynn quaffed another slug of whiskey, and then explained how they did it.

“The news spread like a prairie fire carried on a hot August wind, and an hour later, those two and two hundred more were down at the stockyard bidding pen.” It has walls about twelve feet high, made out of planks with seats around the top where the cattlemen and buyers sit. It was a natural arena.

“First,” Flynn continued, “the stranger leads in the killer dog, and all at once that place quiets down. That's the kind of dog he was. He stood there in the arena like he knew what was expected of him, and like he's above it somehow.

“There had already been a lot of betting, but when the crowd saw that dog, the odds changed considerable. Then they brought the wolf's cage up to the gate. The wolf was lying in the bottom, and at first, I thought he was dead. Then I saw his sides heaving a little as he tried to breathe. The crowd started getting ugly. They'd been had, they said. If they'd known what kind of shape that wolf was in they would never have bet on him at any odds.

“But when the gate opened on that cage and the wolf got up, they stopped talking. Even then, without food or water for days, even with his head hanging down like he didn't have the strength to lift it, that wolf was a magnificent animal. He stumbled into the arena and started looking around like he was calculating some way to get out of there.…

“The dog just stood stock still like he didn't even see that wolf. And then, when the crowd was so quiet you could hear those two animals breathing, then the stranger leaned over the edge of the arena and said, ‘Kill.' Just like he was passing the time talking about the weather, he said, ‘Kill.'

“That dog headed for the wolf like there was nothing in the world he hated more. He was all teeth and muscle and bone, and he meant to kill himself a wolf.

“The wolf sidestepped the first rush kind of clumsy, like, and the dog crashed into the wall like he meant to go clear through it. Then he swung around real fast, faster than you would think a dog like that could move, and lunged again.

“The wolf was moving a little better by then. Maybe he'd worked the stiffness out of his muscles after having laid in that cage for so long, but it seemed that he was pulling strength straight from the earth like that Greek wrestler who got up good as new every time he was thrown down.

“It must have gone on for five or ten minutes: the dog trying to get hold of the wolf, pin him against the wall, and the wolf always slipping away, just kind of gliding around that ring.

“It seemed kind of funny then, because I didn't know what he was up to, but the wolf seemed more interested in the people around the ring than he was in the dog that was trying to kill him. Then he saw Charley. He kind of stopped. That was just the opening the dog had been waiting for. He hit that wolf with his shoulder and knocked him clear into the wall. He was on him in a second.

“There they were, jaw to jaw, and the men screaming. They wanted to see the kill. The money didn't matter to them then. They just wanted to see those animals tear each other to pieces.

“For a minute, it looked like the mastiff was going to do just that, but the wolf got out from under that killer dog. I don't know how he did it, but he did. And on his way up, he reached under that dog and gutted him. I'd never seen anything like that. That big old mastiff was standing there on his own guts, whining.

“The stranger was screaming for a gun, and ol' Charley was yelling that nobody was going to kill his wolf. But the stranger didn't want to kill the wolf, he wanted to kill his dog. He wanted to put that magnificent animal out of its misery.

“Something like that would never occur to ol' Charley, so they were yelling and wrestling with each other. Finally, the stranger shoved Charley, and I guess that's what saved his life.”

Flynn stopped again and took another pull on the bottle. It was then that Nash felt the silence, the rapt attention of the men in the crowd. Every eye was riveted on the old Irishman. No one moved. No one drank. Flynn's eyes peered into the icy dark, seeing things his listeners could scarcely imagine. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper.

“That wolf had been waiting for Charley to get within reach, and when the scuffle took Charley to the edge of the arena, that wolf went up the wall like he was just as accustomed to running straight up as he was to running flat out. When he got up as high as he could go, he took a swipe at Charley with teeth that looked like they could split a cow's hind leg. It was just then that the stranger shoved Charley, and the wolf missed Charley's throat, but his arm was laid open to the bone. I saw it! I was standing there, and I saw the whole thing!

“By then the stranger had a rifle, and he put a bullet through the mastiff's head. Then he just walked out, and nobody ever saw him again.

“Charley was screaming for a rifle too. He had wrapped his shirt around his arm and pretty much stopped the bleeding.

“I was kind of sorry to see that wolf get killed, but I knew in the end that it would be the kindest thing. Charley told me during the fight that he had bet all his poke from the summer's bounty hunting on the dog. He figured with that wolf starved down, it wouldn't have a chance. Charley was mean even when he was feeling good, and he sure wasn't feeling good after he lost his money.

“Anyway, somebody handed him a rifle, and I expected it to end right there. I should have known better, knowing Charley like I did. He grabs the rifle and turns to the crowd. ‘I'll kill the first man to touch that wolf,' he says. There was no doubt he meant it, either. He was crazy as I've ever seen him, with his eyes kind of glazed. He was out of control, carried along by his craziness like a leaf in a storm.

“And then he says, ‘I'm going to kill that son of a bitch myself, and it's going to take a long time in the doing. He's going to pay for losing my grubstake. He's going to hurt the way my arm hurts now.'

“Charley talked a couple cowboys there into slipping a loop around the wolf's neck and heels, to get him back in the cage. But when Charley saw him stretched out and helpless, he jumped down in the ring with a cattle prod. He started laying it on that wolf like he was the source of all the world's woes, big, deep thumps each time he hit him. Finally one of the cowboys said if Charley hit the wolf again, he'd let his end of the rope go. That quieted Charley right down. Even in the shape he was, that wolf would have cut Charley to pieces if he could have reached him.

“They got the wolf loaded back on the wagon. He was really in tough shape then. I figured the wagon ride would kill him. Charley had beat him up so bad, on top of no water or food. Charley borrowed a couple bucks from me and had Doc Borlund sew up his arm. He came out of Doc's office cussing about paying two dollars for fifteen minutes' work. Then he set off.

“Well, gents, I didn't see him for the next couple days. I still had a little business to take care of in town. Her name was Millie, if I remember right,” Flynn said with a grin.

A trickle of nervous laughter pattered through the crowd, like the first drops of a summer rain storm that moves on before it gets started.

“I was on my way out to the ranch. It had cooled off all of a sudden, and there was a touch of snow on the peaks. I figured I better get back in case we had a storm coming. But on the way, I got to thinking about Charley and the wolf. I wondered if Charley had killed him yet. The more I thought about it, the more it stuck in my craw. I didn't fancy the idea of leaving that poor, dumb animal to suffer, so I decided to ride past Charley's. If the wolf was still in the cage, I'd put a bullet in it myself.

“Well, I rode up to Charley's dugout, and right away I knew there was something wrong. The door was standing open and there was no smoke coming out of the chimney. Either one would have been all right, but both together spelled trouble, just as sure as if there was a sign on the door. I thought maybe the bite had gotten infected, and he was too sick to take care of himself. But as I walked up to the cabin, I could see ol' Charley's tracks in the skiff of snow from the night before.

“There was one set came out of the cabin nice and easy, like Charley had stepped out the front door for his morning's trip to the outhouse. But then there was another set of tracks going back into the house at a run, and another set hoofing it outside again. So I started to follow those tracks. Well, right away, I saw what was wrong.…”

Flynn let his listeners wait a moment.

“Out back behind the cabin was the cage, but the door was open and the wolf was gone. I almost walked past it without noticing, but something pulled me back, and then I saw them. There was another set of tracks, going up to the cage and then leaving again. I knew they weren't Charley's boots. They didn't even really look like boot tracks, more like somebody had walked out there in his stocking feet or something like that. Somebody had let the wolf out. When Charley found out about it, he got his rifle and lit out after the wolf.

“I figured he'd catch the wolf, too, as sick as it likely was by then. But I followed Charley just to be sure. The trail led down a ridge for quite a while, and I knew that wolf was sick. Only sick animals run downhill like that. About a half mile from the cabin, the tracks led up to the edge of this little sandstone rim over the creek bottom. The wolf had walked up to the edge and slipped off. You could see where he'd bounced off the rocks on the way down, and then Charley's tracks, going down right after him.

“I wasn't as eager as ol' Charley was. There was a lot of heavy cedar down there along the creek. Sick or not, that wolf wasn't something I wanted to meet up with in cover like that, so I started to walk downstream along that rim. Well, it wasn't but a little while before I picked up their tracks down below the creek. I was going along as quiet as I could, watching for Charley or the wolf.

“It was then that I saw what had happened. The trail dipped into some really heavy juniper and then popped out into a clearing on the other side. Charley was laying there. I don't know how he did it, but he had dragged himself all the way across the clearing.”

Flynn stopped, and a shudder ran through his body. He took a long pull on the bottle, and then another.

“Maybe it was just the meanness in him. I don't know what else would explain it. Anybody else would have just laid down and died, but Charley pulled himself across that clearing, dragging his guts behind him. He had stepped into the juniper, and the wolf had gutted him just as clean as he had the killer dog.”

Flynn paused waiting for the murmur that ran through the crowd to die before he continued.

“When I got there, the wolf was still there, just sitting, watching. He'd been there all that time, watching Charley die. He looked up at me, and all I could see was those emerald eyes. I thought, Oh my God, I'm dead, too. But the wolf just looked at me and disappeared. He just disappeared. I went down to Charley, but he was cold by then, so I got his wagon and took him back to the cabin and buried him.”