Page 26 of Shoshone Sun

Jane put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful,” she said, before returning to the cabin.

Peter walked outside as she entered. “I’ll bring more wood into the cabin,” he said to Flying Arrow who was heading toward the barn. “And then I’ll come and join you.”

Jane sat inside the cabin with her sister in the hours that followed, hours filled with a quiet, focused intensity. She watched as Flying Arrow and Peter worked side by side, preparing the barn in a manner she knew nothing of but would ask about tomorrow. She stayed inside, tending to the fire and helping prepare a modest meal of beans and root vegetables. But occasionally, she glanced outside, watching as the two men moved in perfect harmony, their cooperation silent but strong.

When darkness loomed, the men came back into the cabin and ate. As the wind howled outside, Jane couldn’t help but feel a sense of threatening. The wolves were closer now. She could hear their distant howls, echoing through the trees like a warning.

“Peter,” she said softly, her voice filled with concern. “Are you sure about this? Maybe it’s too dangerous?”

Peter shook his head, his expression firm. “No. We have to do this. If we don’t, it’ll be too late. We have to protect the livestock tonight.”

Flying Arrow turned to her then, his gaze steady. “Don’t worry. We will protect them,” he said, his voice reassuring. “The wolves will not win.”

Jane nodded, though her heart still beat uncomfortably fast in her chest. She had learned to trust Flying Arrow, to believe in his knowledge and instincts, but there was something about the wolves’ hunger that made her uneasy.

The night stretched on, the silence tense. Every so often, they heard howling beyond the snowbanks—closer each time, unsettling.

The wind had dropped by the time Peter and Flying Arrow returned to the edge of the barnyard, the moonlight reflecting off the snow like a sheet of glass. The night was still, the only sound the soft crunch of their boots in the deepening snow. Behind them, the barn loomed dark. Wolves had been circling the homestead for days now, digging their way into the barn nightly and picking off Peter’s livestock. The situation was desperate.

Flying Arrow’s eyes scanned the horizon, his breath coming out in thick clouds of vapor. He was accustomed to the dangers of the wild—the grizzly, the cougar, the wolf.

“This trap had better work,” Peter muttered, his eyes on the barn and his thoughts going to the animals housed inside it. The wolves began an eerie chorus howl spread with sharp barks. Peter shuddered. “They’ve decided this is an easy place to find food. Unless this works, they’ll never leave us in peace.”

Flying Arrow nodded without a word, his gaze never leaving the edges of the clearing. He raised a hand, beckoning Peter to follow.

“I’ve seen the way they move,” he said in his low voice, the words cutting through the silence. “They are hunting from the south. There’s a hollow there, where they like to pass. We will set a trap near that ridge.”

Peter nodded, and together they turned toward the tree line at the southern edge of the property, where the land dipped into a hollow. The wolves had been circling this area, and Peter knew they would strike again tonight. The thought made his stomach churn.

Flying Arrow led him to a small ridge of rocks, where the ground was firmer, covered by an old stand of pine trees. The snow was deeper here, and the trees seemed to crowd together like silent guards, guarding a secret.

Peter dropped to one knee as Flying Arrow began to work. He moved with fluid precision, collecting branches and large limbs from nearby trees, snapping them off with ease. He gestured for Peter to help, and Peter did as he was told, pulling the thickest branches he could find and placing them in a circle around a narrow, rocky gap.

Flying Arrow examined the area carefully, looking for the best spot to set the trap. He would need to use the natural landscape—rocks, trees, snow—to funnel the wolves into the trap. Peter watched in awe as Flying Arrow began his work, his movements precise, each step a piece of the larger plan.

“We make the wolves feel safe,” Flying Arrow explained softly, not looking at Peter. “We funnel them toward the trap.”

Peter’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Wolves are clever,” Flying Arrow said, “but they are not cautious when they are hungry. They will follow the scent of meat, and they will think the way is clear. We use that.”

Flying Arrow set the trap—a simple yet deadly snare—on the ground close to the narrow opening of the trap. He used rope he’d gotten from Peter’s barn, twisting it into a thick, rigid loop. The noose was positioned perfectly to catch a wolf by the leg. But the real genius of the trap was in the trigger. A small section of snow was carved away, revealing a hidden rock just beneath the surface. A thin wire was strung across the gap, and once a wolf triggered the wire, the loop would snap shut.

Peter leaned in closer to inspect the setup. “This will catch them for sure?”

Flying Arrow nodded, his eyes cold but focused. “The trap will hold them long enough for us to deal with them.”

They continued working, arranging the branches and snow in a funnel shape that would guide the wolves toward the trap. The bait—pieces of goat carcasses found after the last attack—was scattered in small piles along the path, leading straight into and beyond the snare.

Peter wiped his brow, a mixture of relief and anxiety weighing heavy in his chest. He’d done his best to protect the homestead, but now, with the wolves closing in once again, he was grateful for Flying Arrow’s help. The man moved with a kind of purpose that Peter had never seen before, the calm of someone who had lived with these threats all his life.

“There,” Flying Arrow said, stepping back to inspect their work. The trap was set, the snare hidden in the snow, the funnel carefully crafted. He turned to Peter. “Now we wait.”

They moved off to a small rise nearby, watching in silence as the night stretched on. The wind began to pick up again, howling through the trees, but neither of them spoke. Peter’s eyes never left the trap, his hand tightening on the rifle at his side. The wolves could come at any moment.

An hour passed, then two. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the land. Peter’s body was stiff with the cold, but his mind raced. How long would they wait? Would the trap work? He could hear the occasional distant cry of the wolves, their howls rising in the darkness like a warning.

Finally, in the stillness of the night, the wolves arrived. They appeared like shadows in the moonlight, their eyes gleaming with hunger as they approached.

---