Hunt for the White Wolf Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  Heading Out

  “Which way did the man on the big gray go?”

  The man thought a moment, then said, “North.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And so did the other man.”

  “The other man?” Clint turned Eclipse back to the man. “What other man?”

  “The one who left soon after your friend.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Thirties, kinda thick, not as tall as you.”

  “And he rode in the same direction?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Nope. Neither of them did. They just . . . left.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  The man shrugged. “Your friend carried a big buffalo gun,” he said. “Other fella a Winchester and a sidearm.

  That’s about it.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  Clint turned Eclipse, and rode north.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  HUNT FOR THE WHITE WOLF

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / August 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51709-3

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  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  Jesse Trapp entered the White Wolf Saloon and laid his Big Fifty on the bar.

  “Beer,” he said.

  The bartender looked at the rifle, then the man. Trapp was big, slope-shouldered, raw-boned, covered with buffalo skins and hair. He could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty.

  “You got money?” the bartender, all of twenty-five, asked.

  “I got money, junior,” Trapp said.

  The bartender sniffed, wondering if the smell was the man or the skins. Probably a combination of both.

  “Let’s see it.”

  Trapp stared at the young bartender.

  “You got beer?” he asked.

  “I got beer.”

  “So let’s see it,” Trapp said with a shrug.

  The bartender stared at the older man, but in the end looked away, drew a beer, and brought it over. Trapp put his money on the bar, picked up the beer, and drank it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Whaddaya use a gun that big for?” the bartender asked.

  “Well, I tell ya, son,” Trapp said, “used ta be I kilt buffler with it, then I kilt some Injuns with it. Nowadays I kill wolves.”

  “Wolves.”

  “Yessir,” Trapp said. “Like the one this place is named fer.”

  “You’ve killed white wolves?” the young man said with wide eyes.

  “I have, indeed,” Trapp said. “Several, in fact.”

  “And what are ya doin’ now?”

  “I’m on my way to kill another wolf,” Trapp said.

  “A white one?”

  “Naw, just a regular old gray wolf been killin’ some stock and some folks north of here. Seems the folks there can’t kill it themselves, so they sent fer me. I was passin’ thru yer town, saw the name of this place, and decided to have me
a beer, here.”

  “You want another one?”

  “Sure. Lemme show ya my money, though.” He reached into his skins.

  “Naw, never mind,” the kid said. “This one’s on the house.”

  “Well, thank ya kindly.”

  The young man put another beer in front of Trapp and said, “Couldja tell me a story about killin’ a wolf?”

  “I got plenty of stories.”

  “About a white wolf?”

  “You wanna story ’bout killin’ a white wolf?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Seems one of them boiled eggs in that bowl there might make me more likely ta tell a story like that,” Trapp said.

  The bartender grabbed an egg from the bowl, then grabbed a second one. He put them down in front of Trapp, who picked one up and started to peel it.

  “Hey, Ben!” the bartender called across the room to another man his age. “This fella’s gonna tell a story about killin’ a white wolf.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Ben said. He picked up his beer and carried it over. “He sure looks like he could kill a white wolf. You mind if I listen, too, mister?”

  “Naw, I don’t mind at all, sonny,” Trapp said. He bit into his egg, closed one eye, and thought a moment before speaking.

  “Lemme see, seems the first one was nigh onto forty years ago . . .”

  Sitting in a corner a man nursed a beer and listened while Jesse Trapp told stories about not only himself, but his older brother, John Henry. It was when he heard that name that the man’s ears really perked up. He leaned back in his seat, eased his gun in and out of his holster to make sure it was loose.

  It had been years since the man had heard the name John Henry Trapp. He’d hunted the man for years, finally came to the conclusion that it was only by not hunting him that he’d find him. After twelve years, he’d almost given up hope, but stopping in this saloon in a one-horse Wyoming town had done the trick.

  Jesse Trapp had walked right into his arms. And could maybe lead him straight to John Henry.

  TWO

  Three men entered the White Wolf Saloon and looked around.

  “This place is dead,” one of them said.

  “As long as it’s got beer,” the second said.

  “And whiskey,” the third said.

  They walked to the bar, took up a position far from Trapp—but not far enough to avoid the smell.

  “Oh my God,” Dean Wister said. “What is that smell?”

  “Whoa!” Sam Bolden exclaimed, fanning the air. “Somethin’ die in here?”

  “Can we get a drink down here?” Charlie Mead yelled to the bartender.

  “Right there,” the bartender said, then to Trapp, “Hey, don’t let me miss anythin’.”

  He moved down the bar. “What’ll ya have?”

  “Two whiskeys and three beers,” Mead said. He knew his partners liked a whiskey with a beer chaser—or maybe the other way around—but he preferred just beer.

  “Comin’ up.”

  The bartender poured out the two whiskeys, then carried the three beers over.

  “Is that smell comin’ from that character at the other end of the bar?” Wister asked.

  “Ain’t so bad, once ya get used to it,” the barman said.

  “I don’t wanna get used to it,” Bolden said. “I want it to go away.”

  “ ’scuse me,” the bartender said. “I was listenin’ to a story.”

  “A story?” Bolden asked as the bartender moved away. “That smelly hombre’s tellin’ stories?”

  “Probably tradin’ stories for eggs and beer,” Mead said. “I seen fellas do it before.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Bolden said, “but not with that smell.”

  “We gotta get him outta here,” Wister said, “or I’m gonna puke.”

  “Leave him be,” Mead said. “Drink your drink and we’ll get outta here.”

  “I ain’t leavin’,” Wister said. “That jasper is. And if he don’t leave, I’m gonna give him a bath.”

  He drank his whiskey, picked up his beer, and walked down to where Jesse Trapp was standing, still telling stories and peeling eggs. There was a small pile of eggshells on the bar.

  “ ’Scuse me,” he said, tapping Trapp on his shoulder.

  The older man turned and said, “I’m in the middle of somethin’, son. Can it wait?”

  When Trapp turned back to his audience Wister poked him again and said, “No, it can’t wait. I’ll probably die from the smell by then.”

  “Then why don’t ya hold yer breath?” Trapp asked. “It’ll only be eight or ten more minutes.”

  Wister turned and looked at his two partners, then removed Trapp’s hat and poured the contents of his beer mug over the man’s head.

  “There,” he said, “maybe that’ll take care of the smell for eight or ten minutes.”

  Trapp turned around and stared at Wister for a moment. The man was thirty years or so younger, taller, but slighter. When Trapp hit him he went flying across the room, landing on his butt in the sawdust of the floor.

  “Whoa!” Charlie Mead said, impressed.

  While Wister was the fighter of the three, Sam Bolden was the gunman. He pushed away from the bar and faced Trapp.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “Don’t,” Trapp said.

  “Don’t, Sam,” Mead said from behind Bolden.

  Trapp put his right hand on the bar.

  “Wait!” Wister said.

  They all looked at him.

  “He’s mine.” Wister got to his feet, but didn’t bother to brush himself off. He removed his jacket and tossed it on a table. He was more slender than Trapp but well muscled.

  “Hey—” the bartender started.

  “Quiet!” Bolden said. “Go ahead, Dean.”

  Trapp eyed Bolden, wondering if he would really stay out of it.

  Dean Wister advanced on Trapp, who stood his ground.

  “Lucky punch, old man,” Wister said with a tight grin. “Let’s see what you think of this.”

  Wister launched a right hook at Trapp’s head. The old mountain man caught it in his left, and the two stood there for a moment, frozen, until Trapp started to squeeze. Wister felt the incredible strength of the older man crushing his hand.

  “Ouch,” Wister said. “Kill ’im, Sam.”

  Sam Bolden went for his gun, but Trapp put his right hand on the bar, found the trigger of his Big Fifty, and pulled it. A .50-caliber piece of lead punched right through Bolden, took out most of his back, and barely missed Mead, although it did splatter him with his friend’s blood.

  “Jesus!”

  “How about you?” Trapp asked him. He then looked at Wister again. “Your turn?”

  “Take it easy, mister!” Wister said, holding one hand out in front of him. Trapp kept his eye on the other hand, just in case.

  The bartender laid a shotgun barrel on the bar. “Okay, boys. On your way.”

  Mead and Wister looked at the bartender, then at Trapp, and then at the body of their friend.

  “Pick him up and take him with you,” the bartender said.

  Wister came over next to Mead. Together they picked up Bolden’s body, holding it between them.

  “Hurry up,” the bartender said, “he’s still gettin’ blood on the floor.”

  The two men backed toward the door awkwardly, then turned and went out, dragging the body between them.

  “Thanks, friend,” Trapp said to the bartender.

  “I wasn’t sure whether or not they knew,” the barman said, “that you had to load that Big Fifty again before you could use it.”

  “Ha!” Trapp laughed. But he did take the time to eject the spent shell and insert a new one before he continued his stories.

  The man in the corner was impressed with the way Jesse Trapp dispatched the three men, only having to kill one of them.

  Now he knew he wouldn’t be able to take the man on his own. He’d been toying with the idea of taking him right there and then in th
e saloon. He was grateful to the three men for changing his mind.

  He got up, walked to the bar, and asked the bartender for another beer. He stood a few feet down from Trapp, who was still telling stories. The bartender gave him a beer while still listening. He took a moment to size Trapp up. Standing behind him, he could have taken the chance and tried to shoot him in the back, but there were too many witnesses for that.

  In the end he turned, walked back to his table, sat down, and proceeded to nurse his new beer.

  THREE

  Clint rode into Little Town, Wyoming, with an amused look on his face. He counted one saloon, one general store, a sheriff’s office, one hotel, and one small restaurant. He didn’t know if the town was living up to its name, or if it had gotten its name from its size. And it didn’t really matter. He was there to meet someone, not to learn about the town.

  He bypassed the sheriff’s office after briefly considering a stop inside. Instead he rode directly to the saloon, dismounted, and dropped Eclipse’s reins to the ground. If anyone tried to walk off—or worse even, ride off—with Eclipse, he’d be sorry. The horse would make sure of that.

  He entered the saloon, walked around a bloody spot on the floor, and approached the bar. He looked around, but there were no white wolf pelts on the wall.

  “Whaddaya drinkin’?” the bartender asked.

  Clint looked at the young man and said, “A nice, cold beer.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  Clint turned and looked down at the bloodstain on the floor behind him.

  “This place must be livelier than it looks,” he said as the bartender brought him the beer.

  The bartender craned his neck to look at the bloody floor.

  “Oh, that,” the man said. “That happened a few days ago. A big fella came in here carrying a Sharps Big Fifty—he said he was a wolf hunter.”

  “Dressed in old buffalo skins?” Clint asked. “Maybe they smelled, maybe he did, but there was definitely a smell?”