The wolves had separated. They were coming at him from two sides, exactly as he predicted. They held their bodies low to the snow, their fur bristling. Both snarled and showed their teeth. Their eyes were fixed on him with the fierce intensity of starving animals.
Forty yards to go to the stand . . .
Fargo yelled at the wolves but all they did was take a few steps back and then resume stalking him. He resisted an impulse to run. All it would do was tire him out and make it easier for them.
Thirty yards to go, and now a wolf was a dozen feet out on either side of him. This close, their age was even more obvious. These two were at the point in their lupine lives when they would eat anything they could catch and bring down. And they were about to bring him down.
Raising both arms to make himself appear bigger, Fargo bellowed at one and then the other. Both crouched and growled but neither backed off. They weren’t scared of him at all. They didn’t care that he was human. To them, he was meat, nothing more.
Fargo hefted the toothpick. The doubled-edged blade was razor sharp. He could cut them, cut them deep. He would go for their eyes or their throats. Or their legs. They couldn’t get at him if he crippled them.
Twenty yards to go and the wolves continued to pace him.
Fargo was beginning to think they wouldn’t attack before he reached the trees. Suddenly the wolf on the right came at him in a rush, spraying snow. He spun toward it and the wolf on the left did the same. Neither came within reach. Both loped away but not as far back as before.
Fargo kept walking. They were testing him, taking his measure as they would a buck or a bull elk. He glanced from one to the other and back again, alert for sign of another rush.
Ten yards now, and Fargo would be in among the snow-laden trees.
The wolf on the right snarled and the wolf on the left answered, and in they came, as fast as they could, which wasn’t as fast as they normally moved, but it was fast enough that they were both on him before he could break into a run to try to reach the stand.
Fargo slashed at the wolf on the right and it pranced out of reach. The wolf on the left nipped at his leg but he jerked aside. Its flashing fangs missed. He stabbed at its neck but he missed, too.
Both were growling. Hackles raised, they circled him.
Fargo twisted, trying to keep both in constant sight. His mind filled with images of them ripping into him and bringing him down, and he shook his head to dispel them.
The next moment the pair pounced, both at once, each going for a different leg. Fargo cut at one and then at the other. He barely drove them off in time. When they resumed circling they were closer.
Their next rush, they would have him.
Fargo knew it and they knew it. His mouth went dry. He broke out in a cold sweat. He must try something, but what? In anger he kicked snow at the wolf on the left and it skipped back a few feet. He kicked snow at the other one, and it did the same.
Instantly, Fargo hurtled toward the stand. The snow hampered him, clinging to his legs. He only managed a couple of steps when the wolves closed in again.
They weren’t stupid, these wolves.
Fargo stopped and crouched. He held the toothpick out in front of him, pointing it at first one and then the other.
“Come and get me, you hairy sons of bitches.”
The wolves growled and bared their fangs, their eyes glittering. And then they came at him again, and this time it was in earnest. They had gauged his reactions and his reflexes and they were ready to bring him down.
Fargo arced the gleaming blade at one and then the other. They ducked and dodged and snapped at his legs. He felt teeth rip his buckskins but his leg was spared. The one on the other side darted in. He cut at it to keep it at bay and the moment he turned away, the wolf that had ripped his buckskins was on him again. And this time its teeth found flesh.
Pain exploded like a keg of black powder. Fargo slashed, and his blade sliced deep. The wolf yipped and sprang back. He whirled toward the other one just as it leaped. Its heavy body slammed into his chest, nearly knocking him down. He got hold of its throat and held it from him, the wolf snapping and clawing in a frenzy of starving need. He buried the toothpick once, twice, three times.
More pain, this time in his lower back. The other wolf had buried its fangs and was trying to brace its legs to wrench and tear him open. Fargo cut at its face and slit an eye. Howling, the wolf dashed out of reach.
The wolf he was holding bit at his arm and drew blood. Fargo had no choice but to shove it from him, and let go. It scrambled up and backed off, blood oozing from the stab wounds.
Both wolves resumed their slow circling. Bodies hunched, slavering and snarling, they were ferocity incarnate. The wolf with the cut eye dripped blood. The other wolf limped slightly.
Fargo was torn and bleeding and bitterly cold. The stand was so near—and yet so far. He must reach it or he would die. It was that simple. And he must do it before the blood he lost weakened him.
He must do it before he was helpless.
Firming his grip on the toothpick, Fargo risked all in a sudden spurt of speed.
The wolves rushed him.
3
Fargo sidestepped a vicious snap by the wolf on the left, and the wolf on the right immediately veered at his leg. Fargo slashed down, going for the eyes. The wolf jerked back and the blade sliced into the top of its head, eliciting a yelp.
Less than five yards to go.
Fargo pumped his legs, his breath coming in gasps as much from the cold as from the exertion. He was so close he could see a few leaves poking through the snow on the trees. Then a wolf slammed into his back, driving him to his knees. He twisted, and they were on him. Teeth found his wrist. His toothpick found a throat. A maw yawned at his neck and he sank the toothpick up under a furry jaw. His shoulder flared with torment, and he whirled. He stabbed, he cut, he thrust, he rent.
And then Fargo was down, on his belly in the snow, so spent he couldn’t move, his body a welter of pain, his buckskins more red than brown. He waited for the bite that would end his life. But nothing happened. With a supreme effort he rolled onto his side and looked for the wolves and couldn’t believe what he saw.
They were dead, the snow around them bright red, their necks and bodies punctured and cut, their fur a matted mix of gray and scarlet.
Fargo felt no elation. He felt weak and slightly dizzy and the cold was worse. Sluggishly, he got to his hands and knees. His leg was torn open. His wrist was bleeding. He lurched to his feet and staggered into the stand. He couldn’t seem to walk right. He collided with a cottonwood and clumps of snow rained down, battering his head and shoulders. Exhausted, he slumped against the trunk.
This stand was the same as the first. No dry wood anywhere.
Fargo willed himself to stand and his legs to move. He needed a fire, needed a fire desperately. It would warm him, revive him, lend him the strength to patch himself together. He lurched through the stand to the far side.
In the distance was yet another stand. Or was it a strip of woodland that had crawled across the valley floor from an adjacent slope? He couldn’t really tell for the glare.
Time was wasting. Whatever it was, Fargo trudged toward it. There had to be dry wood. There
“I need a fire.”
His voice sounded strange. It was strained and raspy, as if someone else spoke. He swallowed and licked his lips.
“I need a fire.”
That sounded better. Fargo lurched on. He snickered at how silly he was being. It wasn’t like him. The
