Slinging the rifle over his shoulder and preparing to swing the buttstock at one of the dog’s attackers, a fragment of the starlit night tore itself loose and flickered into the side of his vision.
Landing against Scratch with the force of its leap, a fourth wolf sank its teeth deep into the muscle at the top of his bare left arm. Struggling on the ground beneath the animal as it attempted to whip its head back and forth to tear meat from its prey, Bass yanked a pistol from his belt as the pain became more than he could bear—fearing he was about to lose consciousness at any moment.
He fought for breath as he rammed the pistol’s muzzle against the attacker’s body and pulled the hammer back with his thumb, dragging back the trigger an instant later. The roar was muffled beneath the furry attacker’s body, nonetheless searing the man’s bare flesh with powderburns as the big round ball slammed through the wolf and blew a huge, fistsized hole out the attacker’s back in a spray of blood.
Pitching the empty pistol aside, Scratch pried at the jaws death-locked onto his torn shoulder, savagely tearing the wolf’s teeth from his flesh. He rolled onto his knees shakily, blood streaming down the left arm, finding Zeke struggling valiantly beneath his two attackers, clearly growing weary. Bass pulled the second pistol from his belt and clambered to his feet. Lunging closer he aimed at the two darker forms as they swarmed over their prey, praying he would not miss.
The moment the bullet struck, the wolf yelped and rolled off the dog, all four of its legs galloping sidelong for a moment before they stilled in death. The last wolf remained resolutely twisted atop Zeke. The dog had one of the attacker’s legs imprisoned in his jaws but the wolf clamped down on Zeke’s throat, thrashing its head side to side in its brutal attempt to tear open its prey, assuring the kill.
Rocking down onto his hands, Bass frantically searched the grass for the rifle knocked from his grip, tears of frustration stinging his eyes. By Jehoshaphat! That dog was a fighter to the end. He had known it from the start back there in St. Louis when Zeke hadn’t run out of fight, even when he was getting whipped—
Scratch’s fingers found the rifle, dragged it into both hands as he leaped to his feet, swinging his arms overhead as he rushed forward, yelling a guttural, unintelligible sound that welled up from the pit of him as he lunged toward the wolf and dog.
The cool air of that summer night fairly hissed as it was sliced with such force—driving the butt of his long fullstock Derringer flintlock rifle against the wolfs backbone. The creature grunted and yelped, but did not relinquish its hold on Zeke. Yellow eyes glared primally at the man.
“You goddamned sonuvabitch!” he roared as he flung the rifle overhead again.
Driving it down into the attacker a second time, Bass forced the wolf to release its hold on Zeke. Now it staggered around to face the man on three legs, that fourth still imprisoned in the dog’s jaws. Then with a powerful snap the wolf seized Zeke’s nose in his teeth, clamping down for that moment it took to compel the dog to release the bloody leg.
Whimpering, Zeke pulled free of this last attacker, freeing the wolf to whirl back around. It crouched, its head slung between its front shoulders, snarling at the man.
Once more Scratch brought his rifle back behind his head, stretching that torn flesh in the left shoulder.
He was already swinging the moment the wolf left the ground. The rifle collided with the predator less than an armspan away. With a high-pitched yelp the wolf tumbled to the ground. Scratch was on him, slamming the rifle’s iron buttplate down into the predator’s head again, then again.
Remembering other thieves of the forest, he flushed with his hatred of their kind.
Over and over he brought the rifle up and hurtled it down savagely. Finally stopping as he realized he had no idea how long he had been beating the beast’s head to pulp.
“Zeke,” he whispered even before he turned.
Staggering toward the dog, Bass knelt beside the big gray animal. Weakly the dog raised its head, whimpered a bit, then laid its bloody muzzle in Scratch’s hand. He quickly ran a hand over the animal’s throat, fingers finding warm, sticky blood clotting in the thick hair. Then he dragged his hand over much of the ribcage, the soft underbelly, finding no other wounds to speak of.
“Can you get up, boy?” he asked in a hopeful whisper. “Can you?”
Patting the dog on the head, Titus stood shakily himself. “C’mon now, you can get up, cain’t you?”
God, how his heart ached—not wanting to lose this dog the way he had lost Hannah, the way he lost so many other good friends—the way he almost lost Josiah.
“C’mon, boy,” he urged as if it were a desperate prayer.
With a struggle Zeke dragged his legs under him, thrashed a bit, then lurched upward onto all four. The dog staggered forward a few steps as Bass crouched, welcoming the animal into his arms. Zeke collapsed again, panting, its breath shallow and ragged.
“Good ol’ boy!” he cried louder now, his face wet with tears. “We got ’em didn’t we? Got ’em all!”
He needed light to look over the dog’s wounds.
Gazing east, he figured it was nowhere near getting time for dawn. They could light a fire and he could see to Zeke before packing up and setting out early. Be gone by the time anyone who had spotted their fire could get close.
For several minutes he knelt there stroking the animal as it laid against him, its breath growing more regular. Then he remembered Waits. She would have heard the shots and could well be near out of her mind with fright by now.
“We ought’n go back,” he whispered as he bent over, stabbing his arms under the big animal, pulling it against him as he staggered to his feet.
Its fur was warm and damp against the one arm as he started back toward their shelter in the dark, his bare feet feeling their way through the grass.
She was standing there against the trees in front of their blankets, holding a rifle ready as he emerged from the gloom. With a tiny shriek she dropped the heavy weapon and dashed toward him, throwing her arms around his neck, clinging against Bass and the dog.
“He is wounded?” she asked in Crow as she drew back, swiping tears away with both hands.
“Yes, but I won’t know how bad until I get a fire going.”
“Your daughter is sleeping,” she said as she began to turn. “I will start the fire. You stay with the dog.”
* * *
“That sure as hell is one ugly critter of a dog!”
From the way the speaker was smiling, Bass could easily see the man meant no harm by his critical judgment.
“I take it you’re a man what knows his dogs?” Titus asked as he neared the bare-chested white trapper who had stepped out from the trees and willows that lined the south side of Ham’s Fork of the Green River where every shady, cloistered spot was littered with canvas tents, lean-tos, and bowers made of blankets and oiled sheeting.
Awful quiet here for a rendezvous, Titus had been thinking ever since their tiny procession marched off the bluff and made their way into the gently meandering valley. But after all, it was the middle of a summer afternoon and a smart man laid out that hottest time of day.
The stranger whistled to the dog and knelt. “He your’n?”
Bass reined to a halt as Waits came up beside him. “Zeke’s his name.”
Patting and scratching the big dog’s head, the man observed, “He been in a scrap of recent, ain’t he?”
“Perfecting our camp from a pack of wolves.”
The man cupped Zeke’s jaw in a hand and peered into the dog’s eyes. “Had me a dog not too different’n this’un back in the States when I was a growing lad.” Then he sighed. “Likely he’s gone under by now. Be real old if he ain’t.”
“My name’s Bass. Titus Bass,” and Scratch held down his hand to the stranger.
“You’re a free man I take it?” the stranger asked as they shook.
“Trap on my own hook,” he replied.
“Then you’re likely the Bass a feller was lookin’ for, asking if you’d come in when they arrived a week or so back.”
His eyes warily squinted as he searched the nearby groves of trees and canvas. “Someone asking after me?”
“Big feller, English-tongued he was—”
