Ralph Compton The Winter of Wolves

THE IMMORTAL COWBOY

This is respectfully dedicated to the American Cowboy. His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.

True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.

In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?

It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.

It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.

—Ralph Compton

CHAPTER ONE

1886 THE WINTER OF WOLVES

Five. Five cartridges in the magazine, one box of twenty after that. Another five or six weeks of winter. The math looked bad.

Finger to the ax blade. Sharp enough to shave, though Earl had no beard yet, barely fourteen. His old sheepdog, looking dog bored, sat beside him in the gloom of not quite evening and the one lantern. Behind him, everything the family owned that counted: sixteen head of cattle, a handful of working nags. Earl and Jimmy-Boy cooped up in the barn since first snowfall.

The cow smell helped him feel warm, the sod-and-timber barn fragrant with steam that mixed with the ammonia of the pools of cow and horse piss and the oily stench of the kerosene. Piled in the far corner of the barn, two months’ worth of cow pucky acted like a stove. Such piles were known to catch fire; Earl knew to shovel snow over the stuff every morning.

Earl scratched Jimmy-Boy’s ears, studied the hairy Irish cattle penned along the far side. Prob’ly last live cattle in Four Corners, ya think, doggy? Jimmy-Boy thought about it.

Ev’ry cow outside nothin’ but ice. That rider last week, he said hundreds o’ dead ones all across the prairie. Some still standin’. Imagine, Jimmy—a frozen steer like a statue standin’ there.

Earl loved to stroke the dog’s thick red-and-white coat, feel Jimmy-Boy’s warmth in the cold of the barn. Every wolf across Four Corners starvin’, hungrier even than you an’ skinny ol’ me. Packs of ’em. Lot more than a box o’ bullets. Damn it to hell.

Earl looked his dog right in the eye. Don’t tell Ma I said them words. Got ’nuf trouble.

Jimmy-Boy’s ears were all pointy now. Earl listened hard. Couple of cows shuffled. One lowed to her grown calf from last spring.

At the crack between the north wall and the big door, Earl sniffed the wind that blew across the little hills, made the last brown leaves tremble on the bare branches. The wolf smell, acrid, earthy, carrying death.

Jimmy-Boy sniffed the same air, and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

Earl slung the Winchester’s leather strap over one shoulder. One hand took the lantern from the peg; the other grabbed the ax. He’d meet the pack in front of the door, retreat inside the barn if he had to. Like before. Outside, the circle of wan yellow light from the lantern showed trampled snow and puddles of frozen wolf blood from two nights ago. In the gloom, outside the half circle of light, green eyes shone bright against the dark. Four wolves—so far.

Earl set the lantern on the massive cutting table and held the ax with both hands, ready to swing or chop. Jimmy-Boy stood close beside him, tense. The glowing green eyes got closer. Their move.

Grandpa Fairchild had told him a lot about how wolves size up their prey, plan an attack. Smart as people, the old man said. Earl figured the wolf pack wouldn’t be impressed by a bony kid with an old sheepdog. Might be an advantage. If they came straight at him, he had a chance.

Ya ready, fella?

Jimmy-Boy shifted, crouched, ready. Earl trusted his dog, knew well his wisdom in the ways of dogs and wolves, of the hunt.

Sure enough, a big wolf bitch came bolting out from the dark, jaws wide. Her yellow eyes locked on Earl, aimed for his throat, a one-bite kill. He held the ax in front, bent his knees, dodged left, swung the heavy blade. A scream, the ax sank into her shoulder. She rolled into a pile of frozen slush, tried to get up, one leg useless.

Earl smashed the blade against her ribs, knocked her flat, planted a foot on her hip to jerk the blade clear. Jimmy-Boy finished the job, ripped out her throat. The thrashing stopped; the hot blood steamed on the trampled snow.

Earl could see the remaining three wolves now, in a half circle, closing. Two scrawny pups, bones sharp through their winter coats. The big male hung back, let the pups inch closer, closer. They’d harry Earl; then daddy would make the kill.

Earl went for the pup to his right, slashed with the ax as far as he could reach, clipped the side of its head. The pup whimpered, pulled back. The other pup froze, growled, too young to be an experienced hunter, got confused, no idea what to do. Earl split the pup’s skull, nose to neck.

Earl and Jimmy-Boy closed on the big male, one on each side of the huge wolf. Earl’s boot hit black ice; down he went, hard. The wolf came at him. Earl used the ax like a shield; fangs closed on steel. The big guy tried to wrestle the ax away.

Earl punched him in the nose. He shied back. Jimmy-Boy grabbed his neck. Wolf and dog rolled over and over across the snow. Earl scrambled to his feet. He knew Jimmy-Boy couldn’t hold a wolf that big. He aimed, brought the ax down across the wolf’s hindquarters, split his spine.

The dog let go. The big wolf sprawled on the bloody snow, struggled, half its body limp, all but dead. Earl knew the beast had but minutes to live, went after the wounded pup.

He followed the fresh blood spoor, found the pup huddled against the barn, whimpering. Probably about his own age in wolf years, skinny like him. Grandpa Fairchild told him, Never let an animal suffer. God gave us our powers as stewards, better than brute nature. A quick kill, a species of charity.

Jimmy-Boy barked, loud. His alarm bark.

Earl spun around. The biggest wolf he’d ever seen was right at the edge of the lantern glow, head down, studying him. A wolf that big could be in the middle of his chest in two leaps. The ax might not hit hard enough, but a forty-four bullet would.

He slipped the Winchester from his shoulder, brought it up slow, slow, slow. The wolf was not quite ready to attack, not yet. Didn’t look spooked by the rifle. Not used to hunting men, maybe. Earl thumbed back the hammer, touched his finger to the trigger. Held his breath, squeezed slow.

Older brother Byrd ran over from the sod farmhouse with another lantern and Ma’s Colt Peacemaker in his hand.

Heard the shot. What the hell, Earl?

Earl yanked the ax blade from the skull of the wolf pup next to the barn. Some ol’ hungry wolves. Cattle safe, like Ma said. I’ll skin ’em in the morning. Might be a decent pelt or two—a few bucks’ worth o’ wolf hide. Tell Ma—real coffee tomorra, none o’ that burned chickory stuff.

Byrd looked amused. Yeah?

Done a man’s job tonight, brother. I expect a man’s breakfast.

CHAPTER TWO

COFFEE WITH BREAKFAST

Earl emptied the last of the dark beans into the big grinder on the kitchen counter. He fished in the bottom of the bag, past the few beans clinging to the burlap. There were always a few stragglers, but they weren’t what he was looking for.

Aha! He found the rough paper envelope, pulled it out, and got a rush of triumph that warmed him despite the winter cold that seeped through the kitchen of the old sod house. Better than the barn, anyway. He was permitted to take breakfast in the house, no more than an hour.

Flossie gettin’ ready to bounce down the stairs any minute. After six already on the old kitchen clock, late by ranch standards. Earl tore open the brown paper, found a little wooden horse inside. Not elegant like the horses Grandpa used to whittle but brightly painted. Ma bought that brand of coffee, shipped all the way from San Francisco, ’cause she knew there’d be a toy in each bag, something for a girl like Flossie, a hard-luck ranch kid.

He hated to see Flossie grow up with so little. If only he could do more for his sister, but the ranch sucked up every cent for rope, for barbed wire, new shovels when the old ones busted, shoes and tack for the handful of horses left. Ma stretched the money far as anyone could. Earl loved the ranch, the stark beauty of the red rock canyon the land nestled in, the feathery green cottonwoods that traced the flow of their little river, the intense blue of the Utah sky, but how he hated the unending poverty and constant struggle.

That coffee gonna grind itself? Big brother Byrd slammed the kitchen door, but a blast of freezing air rushed in after him, anyway. Byrd shrugged out of his heavy coat, unbuckled his gun belt. The huge Colt hit the table, rattled the floorboards.

Careful with that thing.

It don’t shoot until I tell it to. Where’s breakfast?

Why you got blood on your hands?

Wolf blood, brother. Nothin’ to worry about.

Earl spotted blood on Byrd’s skinning knife when he wiped it on a scrap of cloth like nothing important.

You skinned them wolves, didn’t you? Earl said angrily.

So?

My wolves, brother. I killed them beasts.

Yeah, and I skinned ’em. Takin’ the pelts to the tradin’ post soon as they’s dry enough. Now, you get the damn food on the damn table and get back to the barn where ya belong, before another pack comes lookin’ for their breakfast.

Barn door’s bolted, Jimmy-Boy’s on guard, rifle an’ ax by the door. Stay in that damn barn much longer an’ the cows’ll think I’m one of ’em.

You smell like one.

Boys! Ma marched into the kitchen.

Earl busied himself with the coffee grinder. Byrd sat at the kitchen table, stared at the stove. Earl sensed her tension. Her only surviving sons always at each other. Byrd bigger, older, self-assured, the image of his father, at least the one faded photo Ma kept on the parlor table. Seamus, her very first husband, land proud.

Earl, always the younger brother, his pa, Finbar, Ma’s second husband. Earl always second in line for everything. He knew how small and skinny he was, with too many freckles, eyes a green-blue flecked with silver, like nobody ever had in the family. Bright red hair to set him off from the usual run of half-ragged farm boys, all trying to make their way in—or out of—Four Corners. Hell, even Durango boys called Earl a hick when he drove the wagon along the day’s trek to the only town around. Like living in a railroad division point made you important.

Ma grabbed the one-ton iron skillet out of Earl’s hand. You get some dishes on the table, Earl. I’ll cook. You killed five wolves last night, and used only one bullet. Damn fine work. You sit there, enjoy your breakfast. I’ll save the bacon scraps for Jimmy-Boy.

Earl figured Ma knew Byrd’s game with the wolf pelts. Five or six dollars’ worth of winter fur, the most valuable kind, stolen out from under him. Still, he got a real breakfast—and real coffee. Felt good for a change.

He got the table set up. Flossie came dancing down the stairs, singing one of the old Irish tunes that her daddy, Ma’s number-three husband, Robert Fitzpatrick, taught Flossie way back before he got killed in the last Ute raid.

Earl waited for her, the little horse hidden in his hands so he could surprise her with it when she sat down. Couldn’t help but let a smile grow across his face.

Flossie, the only girl Ma birthed who lived more than a couple of weeks, was a half sister he loved like a whole sister. Still, she couldn’t possibly be made of the same stuff, the same whipcord and bailing wire as him. She looked like a little elf, like those creatures in the stories Ma read to him when he was a kid.

Flossie seemed to be made of better stuff than regular folk. Her fine red-blond hair fell past her shoulders in little curls; her bright blue eyes had the cutest sparkle. He’d loved her from the first time Ma handed her to him, a tiny swaddled infant, and held her as long as they let him. Damn if that little baby girl hadn’t smiled at him. He never, ever felt the same after that.

Flossie, got somethin’ for ya.

What? Tell.

From the bag of coffee. Just for you. All the way from California. Close your eyes tight, open your hands.

She giggled, screwed her eyes shut, held both hands out to Earl.

Here. He dropped the little carved horse into her hands. She opened her eyes; a huge grin spread across her face.

Oh, how beautiful. Ma, did you see what Earl gave me?

I always buy that coffee. Figure somebody there grew up poor in the country, understands people like us. They’re good folks, deserve our trade.

Ma studied the tiny horse in Flossie’s hands. I have some scraps of ribbons in my sewing box. You could sew up a little bridle for him.

Had a corner of leather left from mending Rosie’s cinch last month, Earl added. I’ll make ya a tiny saddle. Whaddayah think, sis?

Flossie got up, threw her arms around Earl’s neck. Best present ever.

Earl saw Byrd turn around. He’d kept his back to everyone so far, probably grumping to himself about being called on the pelts, his expression dour.

Now silence as all eyes went to Byrd, Flossie and Earl at the table, Ma in front of the massive iron stove. Was he about to say something ugly?

I been thinkin’.

Earl waited. What . . . ?

If I get good money for this last set of pelts . . .

Earl was ready to explode till a thought spoke in his ear. Wait a minute. This has to be about more than a few scraps of wolf fur.

I been puttin’ money aside, a buck here, a buck there. Another five or six dollars, I’ll have enough.

Enough to what?

To gear up and buy a ticket.

A ticket where?

California. Sacramento, in fact. Head north. I read in the papers last trip to Durango that they got land up there for homesteadin’, up by Oregon.

Ma stared at Byrd. When?

Earl heard the wheels turning in her head.

Right after the thaw. By the time I get up in the hills around Shasta couple weeks later, I can tell from the spring bloom what the soil’s like, what’ll grow.

Then I’d better get busy, Ma said, mostly to herself.

Byrd looked puzzled. Busy? You?

Got to find me a new man if you’re gone, don’t I? Earl ain’t old enough or big enough for heavy work. Mr. Fitzpatrick did a fine job before the damn Utes killed him.

Earl took his sister’s hand. Mr. Fitzpatrick, dead, was a hard topic for Flossie. Soon he’d be her only big brother. She’d need him even more with Byrd gone. Earl did his best to look reassuring.

Dang. That’s why Byrd muscled in on the wolf pelts. Not sure how he felt about Byrd leaving and Ma getting married to another man. And why the hell did Byrd get to leave Four Corners? That’d leave Earl stuck here for years. He couldn’t leave Ma and Flossie even if he wanted to, not with the way Ma went through those fellas she called husbands.

But what did he really want? Could he even face striking out on his own? Fighting off wolves was part of a day’s work, but leaving Four Corners? Starting a strange new life in California?

All he could think to do was finish breakfast, grab a mug of coffee. Head back to the barn, mull this over all with Jimmy-Boy.

CHAPTER THREE

LOUIE

Louie was their only bull calf. Ma had named him, said he reminded her of someone. Said that with a smile that made Earl wonder. Bull calves could be a major pain, but with hundreds of thousands of cattle dead in the ice storms, not cutting Louie made sense. Might be the only bull within a day’s ride, even two.

Earl gulped his coffee hot as he could stand it. Cooled off real quick in the drafty barn. Whaddayah think, Jimmy-Boy? Two weeks since the last wolf pack. Maybe we take Louie outside, let him run off some of the ornery? Byrd rode the fences, fixed what needed fixin’. Not that wind and ice can do much to barbed wire.

Jimmy-Boy appeared to agree. Earl consulted him on everything. No damn arguments.

Byrd says the near pasture’s got a few green shoots pokin’ up where the snow’s skinny. Prob’ly taste real good after the same ol’ fodder all winter. Might try some myself.

Earl took Rosie out of her stall. A tired-looking old mare, a little swaybacked but dang reliable. Knew cattle about as well as most so-called cattle barons and she didn’t spook. Best of all, she knew how to deal with a bull too full of himself.

Might still be a few wolves skulking around, so Earl slipped his rifle in the saddle holster. Full tube, one in the chamber—seven rounds in case of trouble. Now he had to get Louie out of the barn without causing a ruckus.

Ma always talked about her Dexter Reds as small cattle. Earl wished to differ. Nothing undersized about Louie or his horns. Supposed to be easy beasts—so the cowboys said. According to Byrd, he had a case of the stubborns, that’s all.

Earl got the outside door slid back a few feet, wide as Louie’s horns, and eased open the gate to Louie’s stall. C’mon, boy. Got some nice grass for ya. Let’s go outside.

Louie eyed Earl and Rosie, tossed his head a couple times, snorted, didn’t move. So much for persuasion. Earl slipped a rope over Louie’s thick neck, led Rosie a little ways off, tugged on the rope, wrapped the rope around the saddle horn, nudged Rosie towards the open door. No sale.

Earl knew the stupid of trying to hurry up an animal six times his weight. He took the rope off Louie, coiled it on his saddle, mounted Rosie. Then they ambled out the door and out of sight. Jimmy-Boy followed to the far end of the paddock. Earl opened the gate to the big pasture. Leaned back in the saddle built for a butt twice the size of his, wished he had another cup of coffee.

Watch this, Jimmy-Boy. Let’s see who can wait the hardest.

The cold iced down his back, gave him the shivers. He turned to Jimmy-Boy sitting contentedly next to Rosie, looking like the cold stopped at the state line.

"Ain’t no fair. You got yer winter coat. All I got’s my old flannel an’ Byrd’s hand-me-down trail coat that don’t fit worth a fiddler’s damn. All drafty in this damn wind. An’ here I sit, waitin’ on Louie.

I hate livin’ poor, Jimmy-Boy. Now Byrd’s takin’ off in a couple weeks. Ma’s goin’ man huntin’. You’d think she’d find one with gold in his pockets, but, nah, last three might as well a’ been church mice. I guess Pa musta had some good qualities, but attractin’ money sure as hell was not one of ’em. An’ I know I’m his son, no question.

Rosie snorted. Louie poked his head out the half-open door, took a long look around. Earl bowed in his direction, doffed his hat. Glory be, Prince Louie, Lord of the Brisket. Come with us, sire. Earl twitched the reins. Rosie sidled to the outer gate, ambled into the big pasture. Earl, Rosie, and Jimmy-Boy stopped again.

Bad enough Byrd bossin’ me around. Now I got a meathead bull tellin’ me what to do.

Louie lowered his head, charged the open gate, horns