Spirit Wolf by Gary D. Svee Read Free Book Online

into kindling. In the cold, the logs split at the touch of the ax blade, frozen moisture inside the wood making it brittle.
    By the time he returned, his father had a fire going in a makeshift fireplace. The family’s Dutch oven rested on a steel grill over the flames. “Nothing like Mary’s stew to warm you up,” his father said, and Nash nodded, feeling the warmth of the fire against his face.
    The two ate with relish, and after they had mopped up the last of the stew with bread sliced from a fresh loaf from home, Nash and his father scoured the tin utensils with snow.
    It was full dark and colder. Both crowded the fire, warming hands and feet. The other men had set a bonfire downhill about in the center of the little tent village, and a crowd was gathering there, one and two at a time.
    Nash was watching the light play against the men below when he heard steps behind him. He turned just as the bearded man of that afternoon stepped into the circle of light thrown out by the Brue campfire.
    â€œWell, ain’t this cozy,” he said. “Daddy and his little boy out camping in the hills. You better get down there, boy. There’s a man there going to tell us all about the wolf. You’re going to find out this is no place for kids still sucking at their mommy’s teat.”
    Uriah came to his feet in one smooth motion, fists doubled, but the stranger moved away, laughing a nasty little laugh.
    Uriah had taken one step as though to follow the bearded man when the Brue camp had another visitor. It was Jack Flynn, the association representative.
    â€œWho is he?” Uriah asked through clenched teeth.
    â€œWouldn’t pay too much attention to him,” Flynn said. “He’s got quite a reputation in Billings for beating up old men and drunks. He’s been known to cuff a woman around now and then, too. But he doesn’t usually tangle with anybody he doesn’t outweigh by fifty or sixty pounds.
    â€œHe likes to be called Bullsnake. But he probably wouldn’t like it so much if he knew that people call him that because he’s all hiss and no vinegar.” Flynn chuckled at his joke and then added, “You might come down. Some of the nice lads have promised to keep me in whiskey while I tell them what I know about the wolf. And I’ll talk as long as the whiskey holds out. It might give you some idea of what you got into here.”
    â€œWho’s the man with Bullsnake?” Uriah asked.
    â€œName’s William Maxwell. Watch out for him. He’s about half crazy, and he’s handy with a knife. Bullsnake struts his stuff when Maxwell’s backing him up.”
    They rose, threw another log on the fire, and walked down to the bonfire.
    The fire cast the scene below in an eerie amber light. Light and shadows from the flames flickered through the crowd, lending movement where there was none, building strange images on a backdrop of milling men. From the crowd came the occasional glint of whiskey bottles, steel, and brass, and the muffled sound of voices that quieted as Flynn approached.
    Flynn took a place on the far side of the fire, and most of the men there edged around so they could see his face as he spoke. His face was something to see. Low light from the fire put the bones in stark relief, his eyes hidden in a bank of shadow. In that light and time and space, Flynn seemed nothing more than a skull hanging between the black of the night and the yellow of the fire.
    Flynn took a deep swig from a bottle that floated out to him from the depths of the crowd and began to speak.
    â€œThere are a lot of stories that men tell about this wolf. I can’t tell you all of them. I can tell you only what I know, what I have seen with my own eyes, and what ol’ Charley told me.”
    The bottle rose again to his lips.
    â€œIt all began with ol’ Charley Spencer. He was a trapper. He had been a buffalo hunter once, and he never really shed