Charles West - Day of the Wolf

Boyd didn’t hang around long after filling his belly with fried bacon, beans, and pan bread. The alcohol he had consumed the night before was not through with him yet, however, and he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach beside the trading post. Afraid to tempt it again, he settled for one more cup of coffee before he departed, heading for Medicine Bow with a queasy gut and an aching head. Clem was content to see him go, and hoped he didn’t show up at his store with the rest of his brothers. “If he knows what’s good for him,” Clem commented, “he’ll leave Wolf the hell alone and count himself lucky to have got away without gettin’ his throat cut.” He dragged out a long sigh and turned toward the barn. “He sure as hell didn’t offer to hang around to help me stick Mace’s body in the ground, did he?”

By the time Boyd Dawson left Clem Russell’s store, Wolf was nearly fifteen miles away from the North Platte, riding a course he thought would take him in the direction he needed to follow. He figured he had settled Ned’s account with the Taggart brothers, and that was the end of it. Heading generally northeast, he hoped to strike the Cheyenne River in a couple of days. From there, he felt he could work back to intersect his original trail into the foothills to the Black Hills, where Ned had overtaken him. He had already decided to forget thoughts of signing on as a scout at Fort Fetterman. Without Ned to vouch for him, he was not confident that the army would take a chance on him, and there was the possibility that he would be recognized as the escaped prisoner from Fort Laramie. In spite of what Ned had told him about the trouble brewing between the army and the prospectors, and the possibility that the Sioux were going to come down on both of them, he decided he would see for himself if the hills were being overrun by white prospectors.

Visible for miles before reaching them, the odd mountain chain stood out as an island of hills and trees in the treeless prairie surrounding them. They at once looked out of place in the midst of the high prairie land, as if some spiritual hand had placed them there as a sacred refuge of tall mountains covered with pines, with clear, rushing streams. It was a place of mystery, and there was little wonder that the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho called it Paha Sapa, the center of the world. He understood their reverence for the mountains and felt that he shared it as well, feelings that were left over from his one visit a few years back. It made him wonder why he had left there.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the two double eagles Lorena had given him, and examined them carefully. “Maybe I can learn to find gold,” he said to Brownie, remembering that Ned used to talk to the horse all the time. He stroked the face of his horse then and said, “Maybe I need to start talkin’ to you. You don’t even have a name.” He was not a deep thinker. If he had been, he might have realized that his mind was more at ease now with the prospect of returning to his lonely existence in the mountains. It was the only life he really knew.

As he had estimated, he struck the Cheyenne River after riding two full days. He decided to make camp there while he investigated some fresh deer sign on the riverbank. With no particular need to hurry, he also took some time to reconsider his planned route into the mountains. After some thought, he decided not to return to the fork with the Beaver River, instead continuing farther north, paralleling the mountain range for another day’s ride before entering the foothills. There was no practical basis for his change of mind; it just struck his fancy at the moment. With his campsite selected, he took care of his horses. Once he was sure they were able to get to grass and water, he hobbled Brownie, but not his horse, satisfied that the bay would not stray from where he left him. Then he trotted off through the cottonwoods that lined the river in search of the deer that had recently passed that way, and eager to try his newly acquired Winchester. He had had no occasion to fire it before.

The hunting was successful, producing a fine young doe for butchering, killed with one well-placed shot behind the deer’s front leg. He was pleased with the accuracy of the Winchester, and the balance of the weapon felt just right. He had expected as much, confident that Ned Bull would have settled for nothing less. Aware of a feeling of peace within himself, he remained at his camp on the river for two days, taking his time to prepare the meat for packing. With his horses well rested, and a good supply of meat, he departed from the Cheyenne River and headed north, thinking to see a part of Paha Sapa he had never seen before.

His feeling of serene contentment did not last, for on the second day after leaving the river, he encountered the first of several trails leading into the mountains. They were made by shod horses, and in a couple of cases, there were wagon tracks as well. Ned had been right and the knowledge of that had a devastating effect on Wolf, for he envisioned the sacred hills alive with activity, like ants swarming over an anthill. That was not the case, however, as he rode deeper into the mountains, looking for a campsite that suited him. He moved several times over the next couple of weeks when he discovered neighbors too close for his liking. The first of these sightings—they were not really encounters, for he felt sure the occupants of the camps never saw him—occurred after hearing a gunshot echoing across the valley below him. Knowing that it had to have come from the neighboring mountain, he left his horse at his camp and crossed over to investigate on foot.

A strong stream made its way down to the valley floor and offered the best route up the steep slope, so he started climbing. He had made his way not quite fifty yards up the stream when he was met by half a dozen deer that scattered when they saw him. His guess was that the gunshot he had heard was the cause of their flight down the mountain. Judging by the time it had taken for him to reach that point on the mountain, he assumed the shot had been fired a good bit farther up the slope. As he continued to climb, he cautioned himself to make sure he wasn’t mistaken for a deer.

He heard their voices before he actually saw them. There was the sound of laughter, and as he drew closer, he identified them as white men. There were three of them, and one of them was being good-naturedly chastised for shooting at a deer and missing. “I reckon we ain’t gonna be dinin’ on fresh venison tonight after all,” one of them said.

“Well, they come up on us so quick, I didn’t have time to aim,” the butt of the joke replied.

Wolf left the stream and circled up above them, where he knelt among the pines to observe their camp. They looked to be building a sluice box out of what appeared to be parts of a wagon bed that they had evidently packed in on a couple of mules that were tied on a rope line between two trees next to their horses. Wolf slowly shook his head when he thought how easily a Sioux war party could surround the three men. And he had no doubt that the Sioux would not tolerate the intrusion upon their sacred mountains. If the army could not keep the prospectors out, then men like these three were sure to die. He would not have believed it if someone had told him that the army had already given up on enforcing the treaty with the Indians, and that there were already small towns forming in other parts of the mountains. Feeling crowded, he withdrew quietly and made his way back down the mountain to return to his camp. The next day, he packed up his camp and moved farther north.

Boyd Dawson rode into the town of Medicine Bow on a late summer day. He knew where to find his three brothers, so he went straight to the Cattleman’s Saloon. Operated by Barney Grimes, it was the usual hangout for the Dawson boys whenever they were in this part of the territory. Barney was well aware of the Dawson gang’s real line of business, which was far from the cattle business they claimed to anyone who happened to inquire. He was a direct beneficiary of their “business trips” along the railroad towns of the Union Pacific, and knew the name of Smith they used when occupying his two back rooms was an alias. In fact, it was a standing joke between the saloon owner and the gang that they holed up right there under the noses of the soldiers stationed in Medicine Bow.