Hunt for the White Wolf Read online

  “Oh yeah,” the bartender said, “and he told—”

  “He told stories for beer”—he saw the bowl of eggs on the bar—“and eggs?”

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. “How did you know? He a friend of yours?”

  “Kind of. What happened?”

  “Well, these three jaspers came in while he was tellin’ us stories, and one them poured a beer on his head.”

  “He didn’t shoot him for that.”

  “No, in fact, he didn’t shoot him at all,” the bartender said. “One of the others drew on him, and he beat him—with the Sharps. It was amazing.”

  “What happened after that?” Clint asked. “Sharps can only fire one bullet at a time, and Trapp doesn’t carry a handgun.”

  “I backed him with my shotgun,” the barman said. “Put it up here on the bar, told those jaspers to leave and take their dead friend with them. You know what kind of mess a Big Fifty makes on a man?”

  “Why would you do something as dangerous as that?” Clint asked.

  The bartender grinned. “He was right in the middle of a story and I wanted to hear the end of it.”

  The bartender told him that the sheriff had come in after the shooting and taken Trapp to the jail.

  “He put him in jail?” Clint asked.

  “Nah,” the bartender said, “just took him over there for a talk.”

  So Clint finished his beer, left the saloon, and went over to the sheriff’s office after all.

  FOUR

  “Took me a whole day with the doors and windows open to get rid of the smell,” Sheriff Green complained. “The buffalo have been gone a long time. You know how old those skins musta been?”

  “Almost as old as him,” Clint said.

  “Yeah, what about that?” Green asked. “What is he? Sixty? Seventy? Eighty?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Somewhere in there.”

  The sheriff shook his head.

  “So you didn’t put him in a cell because he smelled?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah,” the lawman said, “but also everybody in the bar said it was a fair fight—if you can call three against one fair.”

  “I know,” Clint said. “He had them outnumbered.”

  “You think he coulda killed the three of them?” the sheriff asked.

  “Easily.”

  The sheriff raised his eyebrows, impressed. He was in his forties, had been wearing a badge for a while. As soon as Clint had introduced himself the man had recognized his name.

  “So, you gonna be stayin’ in our little town?” he asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I was supposed to meet Jesse Trapp here, but apparently he didn’t wait.”

  “Well,” Green said, “I did tell him to get out of town, but I gave him ’til the next mornin’.”

  “He stayed?”

  “At the hotel, I think,” Green said, “after a visit to the whorehouse.”

  “You have a whorehouse?”

  “Well, sure,” Green said, “a little one.”

  “What is it with the name?” Clint asked. “Little Town?”

  “Not my idea,” the sheriff said. “Take any complaints to the town council.”

  “Can you direct me to the whorehouse?”

  The lawman grinned and said, “I’ll try.”

  “The smell wasn’t so bad once I got him out of those skins,” the whore said. “Also, for a man his age he sure had a lot of stamina. Just about wore me out.”

  She was in her forties, obviously chosen by Trapp because she was the oldest whore in the house. She had some extra weight on her, but it didn’t look bad. She had big breasts that he could see through her filmy top, dark chocolate nipples, long black hair that had a few streaks of gray in it. Her face was lined and puffy, but you could still see the pretty girl she had been. Maybe her face was that way because he’d had to wake her up to talk.

  Her name was Angie.

  “Of course,” she said, “if I could’ve got him to take a bath . . . but that was askin’ too much.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he left town?” Clint asked.

  “We didn’t talk much, mister,” she said. “Every chance he got he was fuckin’ my pussy ’til I screamed. By the time he left, I was sore and exhausted.”

  “So he went to the hotel from here?”

  “I guess. Can I go back to sleep? I’m still pretty tired.”

  “I guess he made a good choice when he picked you,” Clint said.

  “Well, it turned out that way, but he worked his way up to me,” she said. “He started with the youngest, and none of those girls wanted to go with him. The smell, ya know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I gotta say,” she went on, with a tired smile, “they missed the ride of their life. He wasn’t like the usual john who comes in here, ruts for five minutes, and then goes to sleep.”

  “I’m happy for you.” He turned to leave.

  “Hey?” she said.

  He turned back. She’d pulled the top of her gown down so that her big breasts bobbed free, very round and pale. She flicked her nipples with her thumbs and they started to swell.

  “Gimme another hour or two of sleep and then come back.”

  “I may be busy.”

  “Hell,” she said, tossing back the sheet so he could see her equally pale, smooth thighs and the heavy black pubic thatch between her legs. At that point, he could even smell her. “Hop in here right now then, and we’ll get it done.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but I never pay for a woman.”

  “Honey,” she said, “I don’t remember askin’ you for any money.”

  FIVE

  Clint put Eclipse up at the livery, then went to the hotel and checked in. While registering, he found Jesse Trapp’s name in the book. Well, actually, he found Trapp’s mark. Neither Jesse nor his older brother, John Henry, had ever learned to write, but they had a distinctive enough mark that he was able to tell it was theirs. Most people just made an X when they couldn’t write, but the Trapps each had their own squiggly kind of mark. Clint could even tell Jesse’s from John Henry’s.

  “You remember this fellow?” Clint asked the clerk.

  “Oh, yessir,” the young man said. “I remember the smell. We had to clean the room several times and air it out for days.”

  “He stayed only one day?”

  “Thankfully, yes,” the man said.

  “Did he say where he was heading from here?” Clint asked.

  “No, sir, but I didn’t really ask.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  Clint took his saddlebags and rifle to his room, which was small and clean.

  Word had filtered to him through word of mouth that Jesse Trapp was looking for him. The Trapps did not use mode forms of communication like the telegraph. Rather, they used the wind—just send the word out there and it would get where it was going.

  Well, Clint had gotten the word that Trapp would be passing through a small town called Little Town, Wyoming, but there was no date. Remarkably, given the dubious way word had been sent to him, he had managed to miss Trapp by just a matter of days.

  Jesse’s older brother, John Henry, who had spent many years in jail for killing the man who killed his wife, had gone to the mountains when he was released and was still there.

  Jesse had become a hunter of animals, mostly wolves and mountain lions, which were terrorizing ranchers. He was good at what he did, and continued to use the old Sharps that he’d hunted buffalo with many years before.

  Clint had a general direction. Jesse was riding northwest, maybe headed for Montana. There were lots of wolves in Montana. That was where a man like Jesse Trapp could make a lot of money for himself.

  Satisfied with his room, he left and headed over to the saloon again. Maybe he could get some more information from the bartender.

  “Well,” the bartender said, after serving Clint a beer, “he talked about hunting wolves—told us stories
about white wolves. Ya know, I think maybe he said he was on his way to hunt a white wolf.”

  “You know,” Clint said, “white wolves are actually gray wolves. The grays can be a gray, black, or white.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I actually learned that from John Henry Trapp, Jesse’s brother.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “he sure was full of stories, but he never mentioned that about the white wolves. I reckon if a wolf is white, then it’s a white wolf.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Clint agreed. “Well, if he’s headed for Montana there are plenty of wolves up there. There’s plenty of game for the wolves to hunt—moose, elk, deer—and when they’re hunting and hungry, wolves are tireless and mean.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “he tol’ me a story about how he wrestled a bear once. Guess he wouldn’t have too much trouble with wolves.”

  “Yep,” Clint said, “he wrestled a bear, all right.” In his dreams, Clint added to himself.

  Clint had supper at Little Town’s only restaurant, a small place down the street from the saloon. He’d decided that come morning, he’d just head for Montana. Maybe he’d even pick up Jesse’s trail. He’d check at the livery to see if he could pick up what kind of trail Jesse’s horse was leaving.

  The bartender had told him a story about the town’s name. Originally it had been called Littleton, but because it never grew people started referring to it as the “Little Town.” The town fathers, in what they thought was a flash of brilliance, decided to rename the place Little Town.

  It didn’t seem such a stroke of genius to Clint, but he didn’t really care. He’d be leaving the town behind him shortly.

  He finished his steak, which was a bit tough but edible. The potatoes were good, the carrots undercooked, and the coffee weak. He meant to head back to the saloon for one beer before he returned to his room. But when he got there a poker game was going on at one table. The sheriff stood at the bar, so Clint went up, took up a position next to the lawman, and ordered a beer.

  “Buy you one?” he asked.

  “Sure, why not?” Green said. “Thanks.”

  When they both had a beer Clint gestured toward the game.

  “They local?” he asked the lawman.

  “Yeah, they all are,” the man said, “but they’re always lookin’ for another player. It’s low stakes, though.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “It’s just for something to do.”

  “Want me to introduce ya?”

  “That’s okay, I can do it myself.”

  Clint started for the table, then stopped and looked at the sheriff.

  “You pass the word I was in town?”

  “Not me,” Green said, “but remember, it’s a small town.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  He went over to the table, introduced himself as Clint, and sat in.

  SIX

  Clint ended up staying at the saloon a lot longer than he’d intended. The small-stakes poker game had turned into something interesting. Two of the locals—the man who owned the hotel and the fellow who ran the general store—turned out to be pretty good players. Still, he’d made a small profit and would use it to buy himself a big breakfast in the morning before he got started.

  He put the key in the lock of his door, turned it, and froze. Somebody was inside. He wondered why he didn’t just put batwing doors on his hotel rooms. People were always coming in and out, and if it wasn’t some woman who had taken a liking to him, it was a man who wanted to kill him.

  He kept his right hand on his gun, turned the doorknob with his left, and pushed the door open so quickly it slammed against the wall.

  The woman on the bed jerked her head, startled, and stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Jesus!” she said. “You just about scared me to death.”

  “Sorry,” he said. He stepped inside and looked around. Satisfied that she was the only person in the room, he took his hand off his gun. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Whaddaya think?” she asked. “I’m naked under this sheet.”

  “I’m sorry, Angie,” he said, “I told you earlier I don’t pay—”

  “And I tol’ you I wasn’t askin’ ya for money,” she said. “I’m just wantin’ ta fuck. You look fit, and you smell nice.”

  “Well, thanks, but—”

  She removed the sheet to show him her nudity. Those big, pale breasts with the dark brown nipples; plenty of pale, smooth flesh; and that musky smell that rose up from between her thighs.

  “Whaddaya say?” she asked.

  He removed his gun belt and said, “I say, why not? I mean, you walked all the way over here, right?”

  She nodded and said, “And from all the way across town, too.”

  Being in bed with Angie was almost like a wrestling match. She was lusty, strong, eager, and totally without shame in what she wanted to do and what she wanted done to her.

  Clint lost himself in her flesh for hours. He sucked and bit her breasts and nipples, kissed her neck and her mouth and shoulders. He tasted her and experienced her with every sense he had.

  At one point he was down between her spread legs, kissing the tender flesh on the inside of her thighs, then moved to the even more tender lips of her pussy. When he licked her she jerked uncontrollably, reached down to grab his head, but not to pull it away. She held him there while saying, “Jesus, what the hell are you doin’?”

  He couldn’t answer because his face was pressed rightly to her, and his mouth was working avidly. Eventually her legs began to tremble, and then her belly. But before the tremors could run through her entire body he stopped and quickly mounted her. He grabbed her ankles and spread her, drove himself into her, and took her the rest of the way by fucking her as hard and as fast as he could . . .

  “Jesus Christ!” she said later. “You got your friend’s stamina, but you smell better than he did, and you know more nasty stuff than he did. All he wanted to do was rut, but you . . . I been a whore a long time, but I ain’t never had a man do some of the things you done to me.”

  He was lying on his back, trying to get his own breath back.

  “You wore me out,” he said finally.

  “I wore you out?” she asked. “God, I ain’t gonna be able to walk straight tomorrow.”

  “Well then,” he said, “maybe we gave each other something to remember each other by.”

  “I’d say so,” she said, “but we ain’t done, are we?” Her hand came over and crept down his belly until she held his cock in her hand. She stroked it, and it began to swell in her palm.

  “Jesus, lady . . .”

  “Naw,” she said, “you ain’t done at all, are ya?”

  She rolled over, slid down and pressed her face to his burgeoning cock.

  “You’re not going to get much out of me, Angie . . . oooh . . .”

  She took his penis into her mouth and began to suck him, proving him wrong.

  SEVEN

  Angie stayed the night.

  Clint woke the next morning with Angie lying halfway across him. The weight of her breasts was not at all unpleasant, but she was snoring, and that was pretty unladylike.

  He slid gently from beneath her, so as not to wake her. He wanted to get some breakfast and get on the trail, and if he woke her he knew what would happen: He wouldn’t get out of that room ’til noon.

  He dressed quickly and quietly and slipped from the room while Angie snored on.

  He stopped into the restaurant, where a few early risers were already having breakfast, including the bartender from the White Wolf Saloon.

  “Hey, Mr. Adams,” he said. “Come and join me.”

  Clint decided, why not? Maybe the young man had remembered something about Jesse Trapp that had eluded him the day before.

  Clint walked over and sat down opposite the bartender and ordered steak and eggs when the waiter came over.

  “Why don’t we start with your name?” Clint asked, p
ouring himself some weak coffee. “I never did hear it.”

  “Oh, sorry,” the man said. “My name’s Eddie Reade.”

  “So, Eddie, you remember anything else about Jesse Trapp? Maybe something else he said?”

  “No, not really. Mostly he just told stories.”

  “And did you believe them all?”

  “They were all entertaining,” he said. “Most of the guys in the saloon enjoyed them . . .” A funny look came over his face as his voice trailed off.

  “Something occur to you?” Clint asked.

  “Well, one thing,” Eddie said.

  “What?”

  “There was another man in the saloon, sitting alone. He seemed to be listening to your friend talk, but not for the same reasons the rest of us was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he wasn’t enjoying the tall tales the way we were,” Eddie said. “But he was watching Trapp. At one point, he came up to the bar to get another beer. I seen him stand behind Trapp and sort of . . . measure him.”

  “Taking his measure, you mean?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “What’d the man look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Eddie said with a shrug. “Thirties, tall, but not as tall as you. Thicker than you, though.”

  The waiter came with Clint’s breakfast, set it in front of him. Clint ate while they continued to talk.

  “You think he was following him?”

  “No,” Eddie said. “He got there before Trapp.”

  “So he was waiting for him?”

  “No,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “More like he got interested in him when he walked in.”

  Clint thought about it for a moment.

  “Do you think maybe he recognized him when he walked in?”

  “Could be.”

  “Did he follow him when he left?”

  “When Trapp left, he left with the sheriff,” Eddie said. “No, the other man stayed. He left later.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  “I didn’t see either of them again.”