A Wolf in the Fold

Death in the Dark

I was cat footing across the prairie when I should have been thinking about Samson in particular, and Ty and Clell. I was forgetting the rules that had kept me alive for so long, rules I had made myself. I came on a gully I hadn’t known was there, stumbled down the slope, and collided with someone slinking along the shadows at the bottom. The next instant, iron fingers like a vise clamped onto my throat.

In the dark above me loomed Clell Butcher. I seized his wrist and sought to wrench his hand from my throat, but he was strong as a bull. His other hand locked on my right wrist even as his knee gouged into my gut, and he slowly bent me backward into a bow. All the while, his fingers dug deeper into my flesh.

I could not break his hold. I could not throw him off. My lungs started to ache for air. . . .

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, allowing 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

Prologue

They didn’t hear me, which was how I wanted it. I slipped into the canyon well before the moon rose above the east rim and worked my way down to their shack. Gruff voices and an occasional laugh told me they were there. In the corral were the thirty head they had stolen.

I firmed my grip on the scattergun and stalked to within a pebble’s toss of a side window, which was covered by a piece of hide. No one could see in, and no one could see out either, unless they moved the hide. Training both barrels on the square of light, I cat footed to the corner.

So far, so good. But in my profession it’s the yet-to-do that can do you in. I crept toward the front door. With any luck I could kick it in and let them have both barrels before they so much as blinked.

I’m partial to shotguns for close-in work. Mine was a double-barreled twelve-gauge made by an outfit in England. I’d sawed off all but six inches of barrel and whittled down the stock to a stub so I could carry it under my slicker, or, for that matter, under my vest, with no one the wiser. All I had to do was loop a piece of rawhide over my shoulder so the scattergun hung free and easy, and I was in business.

I was maybe two steps from the door when I thumbed back the first hammer. With the noise they were making, I figured they wouldn’t hear. What I didn’t count on was Ned Wheatley having to heed nature’s call. Light spilled into the night, catching me in its glare, and it was hard to say who was more surprised, the old rustler or me.

To his credit Wheatley didn’t panic. He kept his wits about him and clawed for his Smith & Wesson, bawling over his shoulder, “It’s him, boys! Lucifer himself!”

I’ve been called a lot of things but never that, although when you think about it, it fits. The flattery aside, I let Ned Wheatley have the right barrel full in the gut, which had the same effect as cutting loose on a cantaloupe at that range. Wheatley was lifted off his feet and flew backward, his innards exploding every which way. I truly believe he was dead before he smashed into the table and upended it and a couple of chairs, besides.

The other three were caught with cards or glasses in their hands. Spike Thompson recovered first and snaked a hand for his Colt. I gave him the second barrel square, as much for the splatter as for the fact that Spike was the one who bragged in town that no so-called miserable excuse for a Regulator would ever make worm food of him. A person should be careful what they say.