Spirit Wolf by Gary D. Svee Read Free Book Online Page B

scrap wrought iron he had, and they dropped the wolf in that. It was half dead by then. Then Charley went over and collected the bounty on the coyotes and other wolves he had killed that summer and went on a spree.
    â€œHe dragged that big white wolf with him wherever he went. He kept it in the back of the wagon covered with a tarp. Everywhere Charley went a pack of dogs followed that wagon like it was a bitch in heat, yapping and growling and carrying on. And ol’ Charley sat in that din and laughed and laughed and laughed.
    â€œIt was Indian summer then, and still hot down around Billings. It must have been a hundred fifty degrees under that tarp, and Charley, he never gave that wolf a drink of water or a bone to chew on. It was pitiful, and I was sorely tempted to sneak up to that cage while Charley was getting soused and put a bullet through the wolf’s brain. But I really couldn’t do that down town. You never know where one of those bullets is going to go after it’s done what you want it to.
    â€œThen, too, there was Charley. He was getting crazier by the hour. Whiskey did that to him, or maybe whiskey just brought out the craziness that was in him. He’d go into a bar and buy a drink, and then start talking about the devil wolf he had out in the wagon. That’s what he called it, a ‘devil wolf.’ That would perk up the interest right away, and the boys would want to take a look at it.
    â€œThen ol’ Charley would say he might show them the wolf if they would buy him a round or two of drinks. Well, there was no time at all before he had more whiskey than he could ever drink. That was funny, too, because after a while, the whiskey didn’t seem to matter to him. Just being around that wolf made him drunk.
    â€œAnyway, that went on for two days, and then Charley dropped into the Stockman to start his show all over again. He was cadging drinks when this rough-looking character steps up to him. He was a trapper, and he ran dogs too. He had a few trackers and some greyhounds, but mostly he had a killer dog.
    â€œIt was a mastiff, the biggest thing I’ve ever seen, brindle-colored and striped like a big cat. That dog had a head on him the size of a hogshead, and it was meaner than Charley. Those greyhounds would run a coyote down and tumble it, and by the time it got back to its feet, the killer would be on it. He’d pick up the coyote and shake it like a rag doll, and it would be dead before it hit the ground.
    â€œWell, that stranger steps up to Charley and says the wolf ain’t worth a pile of buffalo chips compared to his dog, and he’s willing to do more than talk and drink, he’s willing to bet money on it.
    â€œYou shoulda heard the shout that went up from that bar, but Charley wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t take a minute to think about it, and then he agreed.”
    Flynn quaffed another slug of whiskey, and then explained how they did it.
    â€œThe news spread like a prairie fire carried on a hot August wind, and an hour later, those two and two hundred more were down at the stockyard bidding pen.” It has walls about twelve feet high, made out of planks with seats around the top where the cattlemen and buyers sit. It was a natural arena.
    â€œFirst,” Flynn continued, “the stranger leads in the killer dog, and all at once that place quiets down. That’s the kind of dog he was. He stood there in the arena like he knew what was expected of him, and like he’s above it somehow.
    â€œThere had already been a lot of betting, but when the crowd saw that dog, the odds changed considerable. Then they brought the wolf’s cage up to the gate. The wolf was lying in the bottom, and at first, I thought he was dead. Then I saw his sides heaving a little as he tried to breathe. The crowd started getting ugly. They’d been had, they said. If they’d known what kind of shape that wolf was in they would never have