Page 102 of True North

I make quick work of saddling up, and I swing into the saddle and turn the gelding for the mountains. A few steps from the barn doors, I hesitate, looking back into the dim space. The Winchester hanging by the side of the weathered doors snags my attention. My gut flips.

I recognize the feeling, and it ain’t one I make a habit of ignoring. I trot to where it hangs and pluck it from the wall. A small bag of bullets hangs on a hook where it was. I snatch them up, too, and tie them to the side of the saddle before swinging the rifle over my shoulder and pulling the strap tight.

Past the barn and yards, I head for the foot of the old hills that have stood here for generations. They have witnessed the rise and fall of every man who’s tried to tame their surroundings and feed their families.

The secrets they could tell.

I push the gelding into a lope and tuck my chin in, shoving my hat on harder. The wind’s icy fingers sneak behind my jacket occasionally, and I make good time to the lazy blue giants. The first remnants of snow have started to show on the higher terrain. I’m not goin’ that far. Not today, at least.

I make the first pocket of the climb, and I swing out of the saddle to give the gelding a rest. He’s breathing hard from the ascent. The small herd I pushed out this way a month ago shouldn’t be too far away. If they are smart, they’ll be on the lower ridges, protected from the wind and the cold. And close to water.

I check the ground for any sign they’ve been here.

I squat down, brushing a hand over the short, frost-burnt mountain grass. After a few minutes of doing the same, I shift debris to find the round outline of a cloven hoof print. A few steps toward the rise, I find a ton more. They were here. By the manure droppings to my left that are still warm and wet, very recently.

I pull up into the saddle and push the gelding up the rise, following the tracks. I tug my collar up. The higher we rise, the sharper the cold. I shiver as we spill over a ridge and onto a plateau.

The large green span flanks the side of the mountain, and I find a small cluster of the herd grazing away contently. I trot around them, taking stock of their numbers and condition. By my count, it’s only a third of the cattle I sent out here.

When every beast counts, this is not what I needed to find.

“Fuck,” I growl, rubbing a hand over my jaw. The stubble Lou’s been hinting needs to be shaved barely registers on my cold fingers. I turn the gelding toward the rise and push him into a lope. We race toward the trees, tracking south.

The wind whips around. The horse tosses his head. The rifle slaps at my back as we make a bumpy path through the dense, woody trees. Light snowfall lets me know we’re getting higher. The fallen debris is too much, and I slow the horse back to a walk. Then I hear it.

Howling.

Howls.

Multiple.

Dammit.

I rein the gelding to halt and listen.

The coordinated calls of the wolves echo through the trees from my right. The pack must be higher up to the south. I ride toward their call. My gut tells me the sound is anything but good.

We push through the dense timber, making slow time, but when the calls pierce the air around me, I slide the reins into one hand and pull the rifle from my back. The mountain makes a sharp drop, and I ride down it. It’s like an old stream, winding around the side of the mountain. The perfect goddamn place to herd a bunch of cattle, if you’re a wolf.

I follow the depression around the next bend.

What I find makes my blood boil.

A small herd, around twenty head, stand trapped. Flanked by the pack. Six in total. The wolves have already killed. Five of my herd lay mutilated on the ground. This is more than survival, they’re playin’ with them. Probably figure they’ll eat whatever doesn’t make it out of their ambush.

Too clever for their own good, filthy mutts.

I study them for a moment, still as can be. The gelding’s ears are pushed forward, his back curled up. Two smaller dogs are to the left and right, a larger one taking point. One stands back, as if he’s backup or too fuckin’ special to get his paws dirty.

But the middle two are the biggest.

The gelding shies to the left.

A stick cracks under his hoof.

The wolves spin back. A few are still homed on the cattle.

The gelding steps back. I push him forward.

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