Charles West - Day of the Wolf

Boyd walked into the saloon to find two of his brothers sitting at a table in the back corner of the room, talking with Barney Grimes. “Well, lookee here what just blowed in off the prairie,” Buck Dawson remarked, causing his brother Skinner and Barney Grimes to turn in their chairs to see. “We didn’t expect to see you for a while. What happened? Did that little ol’ Cheyenne gal wear your ass out?” His comments brought a chuckle from the other two seated at the table.

Boyd didn’t bother to respond to the ribbing. Instead, he got right to the reason for his unexpected arrival. “I got some bad news for Aunt Mavis,” he replied.

“What might that be?” Skinner asked.

“Mace, Arlo, and Beau Taggart are all dead, gunned down by a U.S. marshal and some half-wild gunman. There ain’t no menfolk left of the Taggarts.”

This gained the immediate attention of the three at the table. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Boyd?” Buck demanded.

“Ned Bull brought Arlo right here in Medicine Bow to put him in jail,” Boyd told them.

“Arlo was here?” Skinner responded in honest surprise. “In jail here?”

“That’s right,” Boyd replied, “but only for one night. That marshal took him out the next mornin’, headin’ to Fort Laramie, only I reckon Ned Bull didn’t wanna bother with cousin Arlo, ’cause he shot him before they ever got to Laramie. He rode into Fort Laramie with poor Arlo’s body a-layin’ across his saddle.”

“I swear,” Buck gasped, finding it hard to believe, “Arlo dead?”

Immediately riled, Skinner blurted, “We need to pay Ned Bull a little visit.” He paused then, remembering what Boyd had said when he came in. “But you said Mace and Beau, too.”

“That’s right,” Boyd said, “but there ain’t no need to go lookin’ for Ned Bull, ’cause Mace took care of him. He’s dead.” He went on then to tell them of Mace’s arrival at Clem Russell’s trading post with some wild man chasing him after he’d already done for Beau. “He walked right in there and slit Mace’s throat while I was asleep in the store.” Both of his brothers looked at him expectantly. “He was gone before I woke up,” Boyd exclaimed in his defense. “I was goin’ after him, but I couldn’t find hide nor hair of which way he went, so I had to give up on it. I don’t know how he did it, but he didn’t leave no tracks.”

Both men were properly incensed to hear that their three cousins had been slain and nobody had answered for the foul deed. “I bet I’ll find his trail,” Skinner claimed, “long as there ain’t been no rain or nothin’ to wipe it out.”

“What was you talkin’ about when you said a ‘wild man’ killed Beau and Mace?” Buck wanted to know.

“I don’t know for sure,” Boyd said. “He might be an Injun. Clem and his woman said his name was Wolf. She thinks he’s some kinda spirit or somethin’.”

“Huh,” Buck scoffed. “Spirit—I’ll make him a spirit if I catch up with him.”

“We’re goin’ after him, ain’t we, Buck?” Boyd asked anxiously. “I mean, them Taggarts was just cousins, but that’s the same as family, ain’t it?”

“Hell yeah, they’re family,” Skinner said, “and Pa always said you got to take care of family. Ain’t that right, Buck?”

“That’s right,” Buck answered. “We’ll get the son of a bitch. I’m tired of lyin’ around here, anyway. I’m gettin’ downright rusty, and we ain’t doin’ nothin’ but makin’ Barney here rich.”

“Where’s Nate?” Boyd asked.

“Lyin’ up in the room,” Buck said, “sleepin’ off a drunk.” He paused to think a moment. “We’ll head out to Clem’s place first thing in the mornin’ and see if Skinner can pick up the trail. Somebody needs to ride down and let Aunt Mavis—and Ma and Pa—know that her three sons are dead, but we’ll do the reckonin’ for her. Nate can do that.”

“He ain’t gonna like that,” Boyd said. “He thinks he’s a wagonload of hell with that six-gun of his.”

“He’s the youngest,” Buck said. “He might complain, but he’ll be the best to do it.”

Buck was right: Nate did complain when told of the brothers’ plan to seek vengeance for a sin against the family. “Why do I have to ride back home?” he asked. “Why can’t Boyd do it? He’s the next youngest, and I can outshoot him.”

“The hell you say,” Boyd retorted. “I’ll outshoot you any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.”

“Ain’t no use in arguin’,” Buck told him. “You go on back and tell the folks what happened. Besides, Boyd’s the one that knows where to start lookin’ for this feller’s tracks.” He looked at Boyd then. “What did you say his name was? Wolf?”

“That’s right, Wolf is what Clem said his name was,” Boyd replied.

“Well, now,” Skinner crowed, “he sounds like a real hellion, don’t he? Let’s see what he looks like on the inside when I open him up with my skinnin’ knife.” His comment brought an amused grin to Buck’s face. Skinner had come by his nickname when little more than a toddler, because he took his father’s knife and tried to skin a two-week-old puppy the family dog had given birth to.

They were in the saddle early the next morning, heading for Clem Russell’s trading post on the North Platte, while a still-unhappy Nate rode in the opposite direction to take the news of the three Taggart brothers’ demise to their mother on Lodgepole Creek. He would have complained more, but Buck was the eldest, and he was the boss when his pa wasn’t around.

Clem Russell was slopping the hogs when the Dawson boys rode down the trail from the ridge above his store. He prodded the boar with a stout pole designed for that purpose to nudge the big hog to the side so that the old sow could get to the trough. When he stood back to watch them eat, he caught sight of the visitors. Shaking his head slowly, he mumbled, “Here comes a heap of trouble for somebody.” He started for the store then, yelling as he walked, “Jewel, company’s a-comin’, and they’ll sure as hell want somethin’ to eat!” It was with mixed emotions that he greeted the gang’s visit. It always meant extra money in his pocket for the grub and whiskey they consumed, plus some extra if some of the boys were a little bit rutty. So he shouldn’t complain, but the Dawsons were as mean a bunch of conscienceless miscreants as he had ever met up with. The Taggarts were evil, too, but he had never feared them as much as the Dawsons. Sometimes he asked himself how he happened to be on their list of hideouts, and the only reason he could come up with was that the gang needed places where they could get supplies and ammunition without a lot of questions. Clem was smart enough to figure out that the only reason they didn’t kill him and clean him out was simply that they would need him again. Consequently, they paid for everything they took, so he couldn’t complain—at least, not too loudly.

Clem stood by the front porch of his store, waiting to greet his customers as they rode up and dismounted. “Howdy, boys,” he said, trying to sound as gracious as he possibly could. “I see Boyd brung you back, like he said he would. I expect you’re hungry. My woman’s cookin’.”

“Clem,” Buck acknowledged. “Some decent grub would be welcome right now.” He stepped up on the porch and stuck his head inside the door to look around, making sure there was no one else in the saloon. Satisfied, he turned back to his brothers. “Boyd, take Skinner up on that ridge and find me a trail to follow. I wanna leave out of here in the mornin’.” His two brothers got back in the saddle and did as he said. Then he laid his big arm on Clem’s shoulders and walked with him to the bar. “Tell me about this feller that had Boyd talkin’ crazy stuff about a wild man or somethin’.”