Wolf Medicine

by Hugh Pendexter

Hugh Pendexter

tells a story of early Missouri
and a white man's mysterious
vengeance with red magic

Wolf Medicine

Fort Benton was too busy to bestow much attention on any individual. Prior to 1864, with only six steamboats arriving during the season, an eccentric character would have been noticed and discussed. But in 1867, with the number of steamboat arrivals jumping to seventy, when thirty or forty boats could be counted at one time between the post and the mouth of the Yellowstone, a man needed to stand out like a sore thumb to attract comment.

Montana's gold camps, road agents and restless Indians sated the river's appetite for excitement. Steamboat freight rates were up to twelve cents a pound; passenger fare was three hundred dollars. The levee end of Benton's interests vied in liveliness with the clamor attending the latest discovery in Last Chance Gulch.

One of the few men at Benton who had the leisure to study the surging humanity along the riverfront was a wolfer. He was idly waiting for his season of activity to set in—the bleak winter months, when mining would cease and the Missouri would be sealed with ice. He wandered much among the excited, impatient, raucous voiced men as they scrambled for transportation to the mines. He was daily among them, but not of them.

(Illustration)

Those of the newcomers who took time to look at him carried away a picture of long ragged hair, falling from a wolfskin hat, sunburned to a rusty color over the broad shoulders. Also, perhaps, a vague recollection of bushy beard almost entirely covering the wolfer's features. Each batch of arrivals jostled against him without pausing to realize that he was the successor of the old beaver trapper, and a new type. He was indifferent to the buffetings of the gold crazed mobs; and aimlessly he lounged from saloon to levee, from store to store. Those held by trade or hire at Benton gave him greetings, which he acknowledged with a nod, or a few laconic words.

He was one of the few men on the Upper Missouri who was killing time. The bustling confusion of the gold hunters left him calmly contemplative. The sharp eyes peering from under bushy brows found little of interest except as they might linger on the dandyism of the river pilots. Like the wolfer the pilots were idlers during the few days required to unload quartz mills and passengers. One of the pilots, working for Joe La Barge, bumped against him as a milling crowd hastened to the nearest bar. The wolfer's gaze quickened as he noticed the fellow brush his sleeve.

“Just like I was poison,” the wolfer told himself as he entered the saloon and stood beside the pilot in the long, thirsty line.

(Illustration)

The pilot, as befitting a class drawing the unprecedented salary of twelve hundred dollars a month, was immaculate in appearance. From new stovepipe hat to dazzling shoes he wore the richest and the best. He would have shifted his position had there been room. He shrugged his shoulders philosophically and, being in no haste, took his time to examine the rough figure beside him. The two were opposite poles. The antithesis was complete. Ever a Prince Bountiful, the pilot condescendingly invited the disheveled creature to have a drink. The wolfer nodded, almost surlily. The pilot was puzzled by the bartender's courteous demeanor in serving the fellow. He began to understand, however, when the wolfer returned the courtesy and tossed a nugget on the bar.

“My friend,” said the pilot, “I'd never taken you for a miner. You must have struck it rich.”

“Not interested in mining,” was the listless reply. “I'm a wolfer.”

“But you managed to find a rare chunk of gold. Does wolfing pay better?”

“Pays fair to middling. I like it. You fetched up quite a crowd of men. Mostly from St. Louis?”

“Come aboard there, largely. From Indianny, Iowy, Illinois, and Missouri. Your work must be lonesome.”

“I like to be alone,” said the wolfer, as he hunched over his drink and swept his gaze up and down the line.

All eyes were focused on him because of the nugget.

“What's your handle, if you don't mind?” ventured the pilot.

“Wolf. Just that.”

This would have discouraged the pilot from attempting further conversation had not the wolfer displayed big white teeth, and added:

“I like to kill wolves. Just like I had a grudge against 'em.”

Then he abruptly turned away and left the saloon. A dozen men broke from the line and hurried after him, each eager to learn the source of the nugget.

The pilot remarked to the bartender:

“He didn't get any change back for that nugget. Simple minded, eh?”

“He'd git change if he'd take it. We ain't holding out nothing from fellers like him. Wolf ain't nobody's fool.”

“But he tosses gold away and works hard hunting wolves.”

“Begins his season with the first freeze. Cleaned up better'n three thousand dollars last winter, beside what gold he picked up.”

The men who followed the wolfer outside were now returning, clamoring for more liquor and cursing the wolfer. From their vociferous denunciation it was plain that their burning curiosity had been curtly and profanely discouraged.

Yet the ragged figure had taken on something of dignity even in the estimation of those who had been rebuffed; for gold can gild rough men as well as base metal. The wolfer was a Crœsus in potentials. The outward garb was no longer an index. One of the unsuccessful loudly complained:

“He oughter be made to tell. He oughter be pushing his luck instead of fiddling round Benton. Does he always pay with gold, barkeep?”

“Yes. For two seasons that I've been here. Always acts like gold was just so much dirt to him.”

“Gawdfrey mighty!”

“'Tain't fair that a man should have secret diggings if he don't care a hoot about 'em!” proclaimed another.

“What's his name, barkeep?”

“Wolf. Only name the river knows. Short 'n'easy to remember.”

That the wolfer enjoyed human companionship was further suggested that night when he invited himself into a poker game consisting of two pilots and two professional gamblers. He was welcomed warmly. Near morning he quit nearly a thousand dollars winner, but showed no elation. The pilot who had drunk with him was one of the players. As he walked to his boat to catch a few hours' sleep the wolfer accompanied him to the levee. The pilot, a loser to the extent of four hundred dollars, impatiently complained:

“Greenbacks and hard money don't seem to appeal to you any more'n the nuggets you carry loose in your pockets. If you know rich diggings, why don't you hog it out and go back to the States and live like a white man?”

“Ain't interested in the States. Just like to kill wolves. Just waiting for the first freeze. Have sort of an itch to see if any one I used to know happens up the river. Prob'ly wouldn't speak to them if I saw any such. Comes from living alone so much, prob'ly. Good night.”

“Goodby. Off for the States tomorrow morning.”

For two days the wolfer was missing from the riverfront, and those who had hoped to learn his secret departed in heavily armed bands for the diggings. The Zephyr was beginning to disgorge freight and passengers when the wolfer lounged along the bank. A storekeeper, an acquaintance, joined him and laughingly said:

“Rare man hunt for you the last two days. Tried to make them understand it was no use to pester you.”

“Er-huh?”

“Yes, Wolf. Them pilgrims sure was keen to find you and larn where you got the gold. Tried to make 'em understand your old friends here would be first to know if you was going to give it away.”

“Er-huh?”

“But what we old-timers wonder about is, how do you manage the Injuns? Married a squaw?”

The man's eyes lighted in anger; but his deep voice was composed as he replied:

“No squaw. Injuns, at peace or war, always take the warpath against wolfers because of their dogs' dying from eating the poisoned bait. I buy their dogs before they're killed. Lame Bull and his Piegan band of Blackfeet are my friends. Each fall I visit the Bull at the Three Buttes. Carry along best presents money can buy. No trouble with Injuns if they see you're playing square. I talk their lingo. That helps a heap and—”

He broke off abruptly and removed his skin hat and violently rubbed his shaggy head. Then, without completing his sentence, he hurried to join the Zephyr's passengers, now making for the line of stores and saloons.

The storekeeper followed, asking him—

“Thinking to see some one in that batch of Pilgrims you know?”

“Couldn't know anybody. Been away from the States nigh on to twenty years.”

“Never heard you say what State you hail from, Wolf.”

“Been drifting round quite a spell.”

“Had a notion you come from the South.”

The jam at the saloon entrance held them up for a few moments, or long enough for the wolfer to say—

“I've talked Injun so long I reckon you'd find it hard to guess where I come from.”

“Meaning it ain't none of my business?”

“Something like that. Come in and have a drink.”

The storekeeper refused, and hurried away.

The wolfer entered the barroom and walked nearly to the end of the long bar before wedging himself in be tween two of the Zephyr's passengers. The latter scowled heavily after feeling his elbows and shoulders, but their resentment vanished when a nugget of gold rolled on the bar, and a bartender hurried forward, eager to give service.

“Drinks for the house. Call it twenty dollars.”

The bartender, estimating the nugget to be worth more than fifty dollars at the least, loudly announced—

“My old friend, Wolf, buys a full round at four bits per.”

Immediately those nearest the wolfer fired a volley of eager questions. One pilgrim, third away on the wolfer's left, leaned far over the bar to glimpse the hairy face, and put query after query. Unable to answer the general cross examination, even had he been so inclined, the wolfer fastened his gaze on the outstretched head and explained that the nugget came from hostile Indian country. Yes, he could easily find the place again, but did not care to do so. No, he was not afraid of the Indians. Friendly with them. Crazy? Maybe. But he wasn't interested in gold. Living? By killing wolves. Yes, he liked that better than picking up gold. No. He would not tell others how to find the diggings as it would be sending them to death.

“Death!” cried his questioner. “Joe Gilkil never held back from facing that critter yet. Taken chances all my life. Expect to die taking 'em. Neighbor, your best health. May you always be happy.”

“Drink hearty, friend,” replied the wolfer.

One drink was all he would take; nor would he remain to be questioned further. He was followed closely as he left the long room. Men struggled to get close to him. They pleaded and begged to learn something of his secret. He remained silent and slowly worked his way toward the river. Finding him entirely unresponsive, the group began to disintegrate. Curses and denunciations were showered upon him, but he did not appear to be heeding. Gilkil fell back with his boat companions until they re-entered the saloon. Then he returned to the wolfer, chuckled heartily, and began:

“Friend, that parcel of critters is sore and mad. Was that drink slinger talking straight when he said you made several thousand dollars a year by skinning poisoned wolves?”

“That's right,” confirmed the wolfer. “No secret about that. I'll tell any one where they can find wolves.”

“Drink slinger didn't give your name—your real name.”

“Prob'ly never heard it. Some one started calling me Wolf. Sort of stuck.”

“Lots of folks up here have new names for old,” and Gilkil nodded knowingly. “Just how do you go about wolfing?”

The wolfer briefly explained how he set his line of bait in a wide circle in an open valley after the first freeze.

“Bait's poisoned. Kills wolves. They freeze solid. More'n a hundred die from feeding on one carcass sometimes. With the first thaw I have to work sharp and pelt them before the skins can spoil.”

“You have to dodge Injuns pretty smart.”

“Not me. I'm wise enough to fix that before hand. No danger from them.”

“Huh! That strikes me as being easier than breaking your back with pick and shovel.”

The wolfer nodded, and said—

“Struck me that way. I'm satisfied.”

“You haven't a partner?”

“No. Right sort hard to find. Too crazy after gold.”

“You could make more if you had a partner? More'n double what you make working alone?” continued Gilkil.

“Yes. Two lines in place of one. When a big thaw comes and holds warm for some time, one man is helpless. He'll lose most of his season's work,” said the wolfer.

“And summers? What do you do?” eagerly asked Gilkil.

“Fill my pockets with nuggets. Come down here and do something.”

Gilkil breathed heavily. Then he confided:

“After you quit the bar some of the men laughed. I up and told them that a man who can clean up several thousand in one winter just by skinning wolves can stand lots of laughing.”

The wolfer's lips drew back in a grin, or a snarl, disclosing the big white teeth to the gums. In a low tone he admitted—

“I've stood for lots of laughing in my day.”

“How far do you go to get your skins?”

“Not far. Wolves come to me. They'll come. I'm good at waiting.” Again the white teeth flashed.

Gilkil hesitated while endeavoring to estimate the wolfer's plane of intelligence. That a man would spend a winter in skinning wolves was a strong indication of mental deficiency. Conversely, a man who spent a season, or a portion of a season, in the wolfer's company, if he possessed any amount of shrewdness, ought to be able to learn the source of the beautiful nuggets. Suddenly squaring his jaws, Gilkil said earnestly:

“See here, Wolf. We're strangers to one another. But I feel as if I'd always known you. I'd like mighty well to learn your wolf game. I'd do my best at it. I'd take any split you might decide on. I'm down on my luck. Only got a couple hundred dollars I could put in. How do you feel? Is there any chance? I can live hard and work hard.”

The wolfer stared at him for a few moments and then shifted his gaze to the rolling river and was silent for a minute. Gilkil's fingers contracted into fists and he barely breathed as he waited. Without looking at him, the wolfer was saying—

“If you wa'n't so mortal crazy about finding gold we might make a go of it.”

“Want to find gold? Yes. But I don't care if it comes from a wolfs back, or out of the ground,” eagerly said Gilkil.

“That sounds—” the wolfer nodded approvingly. “I'd split fair with any greenhorn I took in.”

“But I know how to use a knife!” cried Gilkil.

Without appearing to have heard him, the wolfer went on:

“I couldn't tell till after the first thaw how much a man would be worth. I always allow to give a man what he deserves.”

“Nothing could be fairer'n that!”

“Just what he deserves. Then he can't kick. It takes money to run the game. Might lose everything by a big thaw spoiling the skins before I could take them off.”

“I've taken chances all my life!”

“There's the gifts I've got to hand out to Lame Bull,” the wolfer continued in a monotonous voice, as if reading a bill of lading. “I'm working on the plateau between the Marias and the Milk. I buy Lame Bull's protection. Another man would mean another saddle and another packhoss, and double rations of beans, flour, coffee, sugar and salt. Then there would be another set of blankets, another buffalo robe, rifle, Colt six-shooter and a double supply of strychnine. Of course I've got my outfit.”

“Look, Wolf, you take me on. Make any split you want to,” urged Gilkil. “I'll chip the two hundred towards my part. You'd do the buying for me. I've been to the Coast. I can skin any sort of a critter. I'm no greeny.”

The wolfer stared at him speculatively, his eyes focused on the cameo pin that fastened the collar of the flannel shirt.

“Been wondering what sort of jewelry that was.” He poked his finger at the pin but did not touch it.

“Cameo. I'd like to give it to you, as I don't want it. But it belonged to a woman who brought me bad luck. I reckon it's unlucky.”

“For a long time I've made my own luck,” said the wolfer. He combed his fingers through his bushy beard and confessed, “You know, I've lived with Injuns so much I've gotten their notion of what's ‘medicine'. Plumb foolishness, mebbe. But right now I've the notion that pin would be big medicine for me.”

Gilkil's fingers flew to his collar in nervous haste to remove the cameo.

“Take it, and most welcome, if you feel that way about it.”

He dropped it in the wolfer's palm. The Wolf stared at it intently for a few moments. Slowly depositing it in a pocket he told Gilkil:

“I'll take you on. You're advancing the pin and your loose money.”

“I trade!” said Gilkil; and he whipped out a buckskin bag and proffered it.

The wolfer shook his head and reminded Gilkil:

“You've got to live while we make ready to start. Time enough for the money after we make our first camp on the Marias. I'll find you when I want you.”

He wheeled and walked rapidly away. After his first surprise at the sudden leavetaking, Gilkil smiled broadly.

It was the nugget the wolfer had tossed on the bar that decided Gilkil to endure the rigors of winter on a treeless prairie. Desire had been inflamed further by the bartender's story of other nuggets carelessly exchanged for drinks and goods. He stared intently at the bluffs across the river, without seeing them. His vision was traveling far from the Upper Missouri.

Gilkil concluded his reverie by telling himself that it would be strange if Joe Gilkil failed to learn the innermost thoughts of a man, no more sophisticated than was the wolfer, after living with him for a portion of the winter. Once he succeeded, the world would be his playground.

He was aroused by one of his boat companions lustily crying out for him to make haste, as arrangements had been made for an immediate departure for the mines. He announced that he was remaining at Benton; and when they accused him of being foolishly afraid of road agents, he made no defense. He wished them all away before the partnership with the wolfer became known.

During the remainder of their stay in Benton the partners met daily and discussed the work and hardships ahead. Always before separating Gilkil would bring up the subject of gold. Beyond admitting that he knew a place where a man could “comb it out with his five fingers” the wolfer would give no details. But this was sufficient to cause Gilkil to suck in his breath with a little hissing sound. One day Gilkil exploded:

“Why don't you corral that gold? Gold means everything, Wolf.”

Grimly whimsical, the wolfer said:

“Everything, eh? That means everything 'tween heaven and hell.”

“Give me the gold and I'll pass up one and take my chances with t'other!” declared Gilkil passionately.

The wolfer studied him curiously, his lips slightly parted.

“Partner, I don't know but what you'll git your chance,” he slowly said. “Pard Gilkil, when a man is thirsty as that, he's due for a drink, mebbe.”

He would not go beyond that, but the half promise filled Gilkil with impatience to leave Benton.

At last came the day, late September, when the wolfer brought out the horses. Gilkil asked—

“Plenty of whisky?”

“Small jug. For medicine. No place for big drinking where we're going.”

The first stage of their journey was to the Teton, and for the six miles the wolfer rode ahead, his bearded chin covering the cameo pin he wore at the neck of his shirt. Once they had entered the valley and had turned their backs to the Missouri, their way was pleasant and alluring. The banks of the Teton were graciously timbered, and the valley was walled in by cliffs of the prairie plateau, rising a hundred feet or more. The wolfer became talkative, even loquacious, and strangely enough for one of his grim calling, he dwelt on the beauties of the valley in the summer months, when it was brilliant with flowers and perfumed with the scent of the rose.

“You talk the way poetry sounds,” commented Gilkil, whose thoughts were not inclined to nature worship and who preferred framing pictures of nugget studded diggings. “You'll be writing verses next.”

As if abashed, the wolfer became silent and talked but little for the rest of the day's travel. They camped ten miles up the valley.

Before sunrise they had climbed a zigzag path to the plateau and were riding over the dry, rolling grass lands. The wolfer had but little to say, and his companion was busy with his dreaming. They entered the valley of the Marias by a path that twisted downward for more than two hundred feet and left the high, cold wind behind them. Their camp that night was in a beautiful grove, close by the limpid stream. Their seclusion and coziness invited the rambling talk of contentment.

Gilkil abruptly suggested a drink of whisky. The wolfer bared his big teeth in a grin and reminded:

“Only for sickness. We'll be separated from the whisky trade for a long time, Gil.”

Then he told his disgruntled companion stories of the Blackfeet bands and their country, the treeless, waterless plains between the Marias and the Milk. He pictured the red owners as almost continuously engaged in fighting their enemies at some segment of the huge circle.

When he became silent, Gilkil, stretched on his blankets and smoking his pipe, remarked:

“Lonely's hell up here, ain't it? I see you're wearing that cameo.”

“Been wearing it for some time. It's pretty. I'm red enough to think it'll bring me luck.”

“Mighty little luck it brought me.”

“You was saying your wife wore it.”

“Not exactly that. Don't want to talk about her. This must be a mighty bleak country when the snow comes.”

“For our profit I hope it will be cold and bleak, with the thaws lasting only a day or so.”

Gilkil removed his pipe and came up on one elbow and said:

“I don't see, Wolf, how you figger it the way you do. Willing to live in cold and storm when you could make your pile in honest summer weather and live snug all winter among white folks.”

“I like it. I wouldn't go in for it if I didn't. I don't like mixing with white folks. Only people who ever cold decked me were white folks. Injuns will let you alone when you don't want to talk. If they're your friends, they stick. Don't blow hot one day and cold the next.”

“I love a crowd and whisky.”

“And women?”

“When they ain't the clinging land, and don't try to hamper me and nail me down in one place,” Gilkil promptly admitted.

“Gilly, you've had women. Now you want gold. I'm thinking you'll have the last.”

Gilkil came to a sitting position and hungrily urged—

“Why not promise up and down to let me have some of the gold you don't want for yourself?”

For half a minute the wolfer snapped them on the coals. Then he drew up his head and quietly said:

“All right. But not in a way that'll bring whites into the diggings. Lame Bull's been too good a friend for me to do that. But you're starved for gold. The cameo didn't fetch you any luck, you say. Gold won't fetch you any happiness, I'm thinking. But have it your way. Before we quit this trip, if we both live, I'll show you gold.”

“Wolf, do that, and I'll always be your best friend.”

“You're my friend now,” reminded the wolfer. “No, I'm not buying friends. By the way, this is past the time when you were to pay in your loose money. Might as well be reg'lar and businesslike.”

Gilkil sank back on the blankets and laughed shortly, and explained:

“My living, and the whisky, and a setback at poker, you know— Well, I've got just fifty dollars left.” He dug a hand into his pocket.

“Leave it be there,” said the wolfer. “Of course, I don't need the money; but I like to have a partner live up to just what he agrees. It makes no difference outside of that. Money's no use up here. Just the idea of knowing I can always count on a man. Just to have him do what he says he will. The feeling he'll always be fighting beside me, or keeping them off my back by standing with his back to mine.

“Wolf, you can bank on me 'way across the board. Joe Gilkil never yet went back on a friend. No, sirree!”

“Good. If a man will cold deck one friend, he will another.”

“Dog-gone, Wolf! I'm thinking you've lived alone so much, or with Injuns, you git queer notions without any reason to back them up.”

The other pondered over this for a bit, then agreed:

“That may be right. Living alone so much raises hob with a man's mind. Prob'ly that's it. Well, let's git some sleep. I want to be at my snug winter camp up this valley as soon as we can make it. Little log cabin in a cottonwood grove. Even built a snug lean-to for the hosses. They'll git feed there all winter, pawing the snow, what doesn't thaw and run off. Live snug, when you'd freeze up on the prairie. With Lame Bull my friend we don't have to worry about Injuns jumping us. His peace pipe will cover any friend of mine, of course. S'pose we sleep against an early start.”

He was sleeping soundly within a few minutes. Gilkil remained awake for a long time. He was picturing the hidden spots where one could “comb it out with his five fingers.”

The words danced through his brain. It maddened him to know that the great secret was in the keeping of the senseless log beside him. It infuriated him to know that he must serve the eccentric most drearily before achieving his great desire. When he awoke, the breakfast of beans and bacon was ready.

During the day's ride at the foot of cliffs, which at times towered three hundred feet, the wolfer talked of the work ahead. He explained how their prey passed the summer on timbered slopes, rearing their whelps in holes under the rocks, and living on the young of deer and elk, on grouse and rabbits, until cold weather set in. He pictured them descending to the plains to hunt in packs of fifty or more. Then was the time when a wolfer set his lines of bait and made his profits.

As Wolf talked, Gilkil listened gravely and nodded his head; while, almost all the time, his thoughts were racing to ledges, to holes along the side of a creek, where gold could be “combed” out in heaps.

II

Lame Bull's band of a hundred lodges, housing a thousand men, women, and children, presented a barbaric yet invigorating picture to the horsemen approaching the village at a lope. Back of the village, and sprawling over fifteen miles of the elevated plateau, stood the Three Buttes. These mountains were half clothed with pitch pine and spruce and rich grass. The vivid green of the timber contrasted sharply with the white capped peaks.

The wolfer had tutored Gilkil as to manners. The lessons consisted largely of:

“Keep your mouth shet. Keep close to me. Don't pay any attention to the squaws. Eat what's set before you. There's lots of dogs, but don't shoot any. Use your cudgel.”

Already he had told of the immense herds of elk, black tailed deer, of antelopes and bighorn sheep, that fattened on the grass lands to the very peaks. He had named the cherries and different kinds of berries in describing this as an Indian heaven. Nor did he forget that the heights served as watch towers for discovering buffaloes or enemies.

“I'll take you to the top of this nearest butte. You'll see old Cypress ninety miles to the north. No end of rolling prairie in the northeast and east. A mighty fine view of the Bear's Paw range southeast, and the ranges beyond the Missouri, and the Rockies in the west. But you won't see the rivers, as they're hid in the deep valleys. You'll like it.”

“I'll climb up there for just one thing,” mumbled Gilkil.

“Gold, or women?” The wolfer grinned broadly.

“Gold! I'd go to hell for that, and for nothing else.”

“Not for a friend?”

“Oh, of course. That goes without saying. Say, Wolf, sure these fellers are all right?”

He referred to the band of horsemen suddenly sweeping from the lodges and riding toward them. The wolfer flung up his open hand, palm outward, and resumed conversation. Gilkil heard nothing. He was watching the racing band, now almost upon them. He winced, thinking the two horses and smaller mounts of the Indians were to crash together. But the band split and passed furiously on each side of the white men, and instantly wheeled and encircled them. The leader rode close to the Wolfer's stirrup and shook hands warmly. None of these men, perfect physical specimens, seemed to see Gilkil until the wolfer told the leader:

“Your brother brings a man to help him hunt wolves.”

“There is a robe and meat for him. It is good he did not come alone.”

Then he caused Gilkil's scalp to prickle by sounding an unearthly yell. His followers did likewise. The Americans' horses broke into a mad gallop, and the furious cavalcade did not halt until close to the lodge of the chief. In a low voice Gilkil muttered—

“Such damned smells!”

“Don't let anyone see you wrinkling up your fussy nose,” warned the wolfer as he swung to the ground. “This is the chief.”

Lame Bull, followed by several squaws, emerged from the lodge. He seized the wolfer's hand and threw his left arm around the broad shoulders and rubbed his wrinkled, painted cheek against the bearded one, first on one side and then on the other. He took no notice of Gilkil until the wolfer explained:

“A man to help your son hunt wolves. Your son brings gifts.”

“Let the white man keep close to my son, so my young men will not take him for a Crow.

He led the way inside the big lodge, his small eyes glittering in expectation. Outside the curious gathered.

Although eager to learn what the white man had brought him, Lame Bull produced his pipe and smoked with his two guests. This important ceremony out of the way, the squaws spread a new Hudson's Bay blanket and placed in the middle of it a big kettle of elk meat and dried berries cooked together. The chief talked of the season's hunting and fighting, and expressed alarm because of the vast horde of white men overrunning the gold country a hundred miles or more from Benton.

While he talked his gaze wandered to where the wolfer's packs were piled just inside the entrance. He was as eager as a child to have the packs opened, but by no word did he betray his curiosity. Gilkil ate suspiciously. Once he grossly violated red etiquette by breaking in while the chief was speaking, to hoarsely whisper—

“This ain't dog we're eating, is it?”

“No! Shut your trap.”

The wolfer ate heartily and leisurely. Gilkil stole glances at the scalps decorating the chiefs apparel of skins. He would have eaten but little had not the wolfer urged him with a quick frown. At last the white men would eat no more, and Lame Bull said they would walk about the village. The wolfer said he would open his packs before leaving the lodge.

Anticipation fairly burned in the small eyes as the chief watched his white son drag the packs to the center of the lodge. The entrance was filled with the heads of the curious. Playing for a climax the wolfer began with twenty pounds of hard candy for the children of the village. Then followed some gay cloth for the women in the lodges of Lame Bull and two subordinate chiefs. There were two dozen hunting knives to be distributed by the chief. Slowly the wolfer placed the last package on the blanket. Lame Bull held his breath and attempted to stare indifferently away as the white man's fingers fumbled with the fastenings. He could not suppress a grunt of delight as the brace of .44's, Army model, were placed in his lap and quickly supplemented by a large box of ammunition.

The onlookers patted soft tattoos against their lips with their fingers to express their amazement and delight. Lame Bull expressed his love for his son, but gave no words of thanks for the gifts. Thrusting the revolvers into his belt, he spoke to a squaw, who quickly brought a box of rawhide to the blanket. The chief explained:

“This is medicine. A strong wolf medicine. You must see it before the white man does to keep the medicine strong.”

“Gilkil, just a bit of red manners. Step outside until I have opened the box. Come back when I call.”

Gilkil, wary of the crowd before the lodge, did as directed. The wolfer slowly unfastened the rawhide thongs and opened the box, sank back, and patted his fingers against his open mouth. Pleased as a child, the chief smiled.

“It is medicine,” he repeated, “for my son.”

The wolfer examined the gift more thoroughly, then replaced it in the box and securely knotted the thongs. He told the chief:

“It will be a long time before my white friend sees this. The medicine must know it belongs to me.”

The next few days were days of feasting, of racing ponies, with the chief promising to become proficient with the revolvers if the ammunition held out. All the while Gilkil was yearning to be gone. When it was time for the wolfers to depart a final feast of the whole village was given by the leading men, and twenty young bucks rode with the white men for half of the thirty odd miles.

Early next morning the partners were back at their cabin and the wolfer was resuming his instructions to Gilkil. These consisted largely of taking Gilkil over a twenty mile semicircle. Over and over again it was impressed on the beginner that he must learn this route, the start and finish being equidistant from the river, so he could cover it when a blinding storm obscured all landmarks. For himself the wolfer planned a much longer line of bait.

Gilkil hated it, and was scarcely able to conceal his state of mind. He wished the actual work would come. One night the wolfer returned indoors from studying the weather and announced:

“Strong freeze by morning. We'll soon be at work.”

Gilkil's accumulated resentment boiled over. For days he had fought to retain control of his tightly strung nerves. It was the wolfer's tone of satisfaction that rushed him into an open complaint. He savagely told his partner:

“I don't understand it at all, Wolf. No sabe to it. Here's you, knowing where you can scratch out prime nuggets with your bare hands, and you'd rather stick here in this Godforsaken place, through a rotten winter, poisoning wolves!”

The wolfer laughed aloud; something he seldom did. Gilkil flicked his eyelids rapidly and for a moment forgot his irritation as he said:

“I'd say, if I didn't know better, that some time, somewhere, I've known some one that makes me think of you. You never was out on the Coast?”

“No. If I'd ever seen you I'd remember. You were in Californy sometime, and in rich diggings, from what you tell. If you're so crazy about gold, why didn't you stay there?”

Gilkil frowned, as he said:

“A woman. She spoiled my chances out there.”

“Did she act up any better after you fetched her East?”

“She stayed out there. Died.”

The rising wind sucked down the valley and howled woefully. The wolfer stepped to the doorway, where the big buffalo robe serving as a door bellied in as if some monster were crowding against it. He lifted the robe, and a cold gust blew ashes and sparks from the fireplace.

“You're freezing us out,” complained Gilkil.

“The wind fooled me,” mumbled the wolfer. “Thought some critter was pressing against the robe. Let's see. You was saying about the woman—”

“I said she died out there; but let's talk about something else.”

The wolfer dropped on his blankets.

“I never knew much about women,” he confessed slowly, “so we'll talk about them. Then about something else, say, my hidden gold mine.”

“The last will make good hearing,” eagerly endorsed Gilkil. “I'd stay awake all night to talk about gold—fat nuggets.”

“You was in rich diggings. Why didn't you stick after the woman died? She couldn't bother you any after she was dead.”

“Well, she did. She set people against me by dying.”

“You've been gitting at the whisky,” accused the wolfer harshly.

“Good land, no! It does sound funny, but it's easy to explain. You see, Wolf, the woman was a whiner. Homesick for the East. Blamed me for taking her West.”

“Homesick. Took on about it. Er-huh?”

“Well, her whining, of course, made some folks think I'd abused her. Then when I happened to be with the boys and she was alone, she pegged out. How'd I know she was mortal sick?”

“Died alone, of course. But you ain't no doctor. And folks blamed you?”

“I said so. She's buried in Lone Mountain Cemetery: Done everything I could. But some folks got to talking rough. My friends told me I'd better cross the Sierra. I did. Kept on going till I struck Indianny.”

“Of all I ever heard tell! Blamed you 'cause you was unlucky enough to have your wife get sick and die.”

“Not exactly that,” Gilkil corrected. “She wa'n't my wife, but I was taking care of her.”

“Well, that beats all creation! No claim on you, yet you took care of her. Still she complained and you was blamed.”

“I'm sick of the whole business. That's why I was quick to sell that cameo. It fetched me bad luck,” said Gilkil.

“But if it wa'n't for that cameo I'd never took you on, prob'ly,” said the wolfer. “And if I hadn't taken you on, you'd never git a crack at my hidden diggings. Now, Gil, I'd say that cameo fetched you luck. Fetched you a woman and will lead you to gold.”

“Let it bring me gold and I'll forgive her for driving me from Californy with her whining and homesickness.”

The wolfer threw back his head and laughed aloud. Usually his approach to risibles was limited to a cavernous opening of the mouth. The cabin was so small and the laughter was so loud Gilkil cried:

“Quit it. Wolf! Stop it! You're splitting my head open. Just as soon hear a wolf pack howling as to hear you letting out such hoots.”

“Not knowing much about women it struck me as funny that you, who knows so much about them, could rim into hard luck because of one. Now as to my hidden diggings...”

For half an hour he sketched pictures, and Gilkil's mouth watered as he listened. When Wolf had finished Gilkil drew a deep breath and said:

“Now I can sleep and have pleasant dreams. You've promised. Plenty of gold there, or I wouldn't touch it. Don't go to rob any man. But you say there's more'n you'll ever use. If I can work into bonanza just once—”

“Plenty of gold, partner. Some danger, of course.”

“Danger? Injuns are friendly and denned up in their village. I know my line of bait so well I can follow it blindfolded. And we can't freeze, or starve.”

“I had wolves in mind.”

“But they can't trouble one. A good hoss and guns. Bah!”

“No, no, not from a pack. I was thinking of the danger from a mad wolf getting at you.”

Gilkil's brows drew down.

“That's silly,” he decided. “Mad wolf hasn't more sense than a mad dog. He'd stand no show of catching me. If he tried it, a hunk of lead would mighty soon cure his madness.”

“You don't get what I mean. You don't know wolves, mad ones, like I do,” patiently said the wolfer. “It's their slyness that makes them dangerous. When a wolf goes mad he quits the pack. He'll steal into a tent, or hut, soft as a ghost, and bite your foot, or your face. The bite wouldn't amount to shucks if it wasn't for the poison. You wake up in the night and tell yourself, ‘Rat, or something, been nipping my toe.' In the morning you find, sure enough, something has nipped a toe. But it don't amount to nothing, and you go about your work. And then—”

He stopped and commenced fussing with his pipe.

“And then? Then what?” prompted Gilkil impatiently.

“Why, then you go mad. Mad like a wolf. I never see but one man who went mad. Never want to see another. He'd twist and howl and bite his own flesh—”

“Shut up, Wolf! See here. We're going to have a different sort of a door. Just a buffalo robe fastened with pegs! I won't stand for that.”

The wolfer nodded his shaggy head, then reminded:

“But we haven't any tools. I've always blocked out the wind with a robe. Mighty careless, I s'pose. Mebbe we can fix a contraption of logs. What part of Californy was you in?”

“Oh, on the Feather'n' the Yuba. In dry diggings. Floated round quite a bit. In Frisco last.”

“Can't dig gold in Frisco.”

“Fine place to blow your dust after you've made a strike.” Gilkil's eyes gleamed reminiscently.

“That's where your wife died.”

“Woman, not wife,” Gilkil corrected. “No, she wa'n't there. She was at the camp. Picked her time when I was having a toot in the El Dorado. How'd I know she was going to peg out and start the talking? Listen, Wolf, git this straight. I don't like to talk about Californy. Always feel I was driven away along of a woman's whining, and lost my big chance.”

“Well, well, if you're that sensitive. But you've got a better chance with me to handle gold than you ever had out there, Gil. But she prob'ly wouldn't complained if you'd been lucky. Some women are like that.”

“Dead wrong. In bonanza, or in borrasca, she fussed and whined. Tried to send her back East. Tried everything. No good.”

“She didn't want to go home?” prompted the wolfer.

Gilkil shook his head, and explained:

“Way things was it wa'n't very pleasant for her. Now, Wolf, I just don't want to talk about that.”

“All right. All right.” The wolfer's tone was peevish. “But when two men are cooped up in a place like this, they talk about almost anything to keep from going crazy. I'm just as curious about women as you be about gold. A whiner. Never understood women. Always taking on. I couldn't stand for that.”

“I didn't,” said Gilkil grimly.

Again the peal of laughter, too loud for the small walls. Again Gilkil came up on an elbow. Before he could speak, his partner was apologetically explaining:

“Always strikes me funny when a man thinks he's finding heaven and wakes up in hell. Well, let's turn in. Dream of the gold you're going to paw over, and forget the woman who fetched you bad luck.”

The morning broke cold and clear. The freeze was severe, and the wolfer grunted Lame Bull's hunting song as he prepared for the day's work. Gilkil, out of sorts because the wind had disturbed his sleep, “howling like wolves,” worked up a transient enthusiasm by telling himself the sooner the drudgery was over the quicker he would be combing gold with his ten fingers. After they had eaten the wolfer directed:

“You be saddling up. I'm going to bury that stinking robe Lame Bull gave me.”

“Sort of wondered why you left that rawhide contraption on top the cabin.”

The wolfer laughed silently.

“If I'd kept it in here and the heat got to stirring it up, well, you'd slept outdoors, partner.”

Gilkil winced and promptly confessed:

“Not after hearing about mad wolves. And my nose's rather fussy at that.”

The wolfer carried the long rawhide box, unopened since leaving Lame Bull's lodge, back under the cliffs and buried it. The horses were saddled when he returned, and Gilkil was eager to be off. The wind was strong and cold when the two gained the plateau. Cuddling his head in his collar, Gilkil cried—

“It'll be rougher before it's softer.”

The wolfer nodded and galloped over the frozen scum of snow. Inside of half a mile the wolfer killed a buffalo bull with his Henry rifle. Gilkil was amazed at the man's dexterity in preparing the carcass for the poison. When the wolfer had finished and swung into the saddle his partner grimaced in disgust and said—

“You look like a murderer.”

“A butcher,” the wolfer corrected. “Your man killer does a neater job. You saw how I doctored that carcass. You'll do the next one.” They rode on a few miles and Gilkil took his turn. The wolfer laughed silently. Gilkil frowned at his gruesome arms and said—

“Wolves will smell me instead of the bait.”

“Right. But they'll never give chase when their dinner's waiting on the floor of the prairie.”

They were following Gilkil's line, and at dusk were back at the cliffs. Descending the crooked path, and washing in the icy water, they hastened to the cabin and kindled a blaze in the crude rock fireplace. The wolfer told his companion—

“What you've been through today is just August weather to what's coming.”

Gilkil, trying to clean his nails, wrinkled his nose in disgust. His partner was amused, and he asked—

“Finicky about a little blood?”

“You can't expect me to like it,” grumbled Gilkil.

“But it's clean blood. You can't make bread without getting dough on your hands. You'll get used to it.”

The wind was making a weird sound in the valley. The robe filling the doorway bellied in and sucked out. Gilkil's brows contracted as he watched the robe work back and forth. Finally he cried:

“Damn that robe! Keeps acting as if some one, or something, was trying to git in.”

“When you eat, throw the first bit of meat over your shoulder to feed the ghosts; then they won't bother you,” said the wolfer.

“Ghosts? What do you mean? Or just some of your funning?”

The wolfer shrugged his broad shoulders and replied:

“I don't know if I'm joking, or funning. Injuns do that— Feed the ghosts. Sometimes I can't tell where I leave off being white and begin to think red.”

“But I don't take no stock in ghosts,” said Gilkil sharply. “I was thinking about mad wolves. That doorway's got to be plugged up.”

“No boards, nor box stuff to use,” mused the wolfer. “Mebbe we can fix it someway.”

“We'll freeze to death when it gits colder.”

“Cold air don't hurt a body,” assured the wolfer. “You'll git used to it. One thing you never had to fret about in Californy—cold weather.”

“Nor mad wolves,” Gilkil added.

The wolfer kneeled before the fire, feeding fuel to make a bed of coals for cooking, and as he built up the blaze he said:

“Never could understand how a mad thing, beast or human, can use his cunning after he's lost his reason. Now what makes a mad wolf want to sneak into a cabin, or tent, and bite a man? He ain't hungry. Yet he'll slip in, sly's a weasel. He don't rush in and chaw whatever he comes to, but comes like a shadder, or a ghost. The harm he does wouldn't amount to shucks if it wa'n't for the poison he leaves behind. But even a teeny scratch is more deadly then to have your back half ripped off by a grizzly. And the suffering that can enter through the teeniest scratch! Good land! I could tell you more stories—”

“For God's sake, don't!” broke in Gilkil. “Talk about gold.”

“Gold to me is just another kind of a rock.”

“It'll buy all a man can want,” shrilly insisted Gilkil.

“Didn't for me. I can hoe out a barrel of it.” He paused at Gilkil's half smothered cry. “Yes, a barrel. You think you'd be happy with a barrel of gold. But don't call it gold. Call it all the food and terbaccer and finnified clothes and travel and whisky you could ever want.”

“And women!” added Gilkil, his eyes blazing. “High and mighty, highty-tighty women, who'd never look at you poor, but who will clean your boots if you throw gold in their laps!”

“All right. Women. But what if you owned all the women in the world? And why do you want highty-tighty women to clean your boots?”

“Ain't it some fun to see a proud, grand'n' mighty one bow her head? Ain't it fun to see the high'n' mighty become meek'n' meeching?”

The wolfer turned it over in his mind while preparing the coffee. Then he reminded Gilkil:

“But I don't know much about women. Them you speak of, would be bowing their heads to the gold, not to you.”

“I don't give a damn what they bow to, so long as they knuckle under.”

The sudden peal of wild laughter gave Gilkil a start. The wolfer quickly subsided, and said:

“You're a funny cuss. You'll earn your gold just by keeping me company.”

Mollified, yet a bit resentful, Gilkil complained:

“You make me jump with that wild hoot of yours. Must sound like the howling of a mad wolf.”

“Now, Gilly, a mad wolf don't go round, howling his crazy head off. That's why he's dangerous. Soft footed as a ghost. And sly! Show me the slyest thing you can think of, and it'll be clumsy alongside a mad wolf.”

“Don't talk about wolves. Mad ones.”

“All right,” patiently said the wolfer. “We was talking about women. How much happiness have women fetched you? I'm plumb ignorant, you understand, Gilly. Sometime I may want to go back to the States and cut a shine. I'd like to learn things. Do women who bow before gold make you the happiest?”

“I don't know.” The tone was sullen. “The kind that don't help you any is the kind that fall in love. They are a great nuisance.”

“Well, good land!” muttered the wolfer, staring, wide eyed, at his partner. “I can't tell what you mean. You don't believe in love?”

“Not the soft, mushy kind. Your red friends don't either. That old buck we visited has a lodge full of squaws. He barks, and they hyper. He has the right notion.”

“It's their custom. Lame Bull's happy. His squaws are happy. But it's the red way. There was old Solomon. Had a thousand wives. Learned it when a younker. If I remember my book reading he wa'n't over happy. Look at it this way. What would you do if you got soft headed 'n' soft-hearted about a woman who'd knuckled to your gold, and you lost your pile, and she made fun of you?”

“I'd kill her!” hoarsely declaim Gilkil; then meeting his partner's staring eyes he hastily added, “Of course, I didn't mean that, Wolf. It would be my hard luck. Let's talk about something else.”

“All right. Tell me about the Californy diggings. Did you strike it rich?”

Gilkil made a face at disagreeable memories, and mournfully confessed:

“I could have made a million if I hadn't left a case knife at the foot of a ledge; or if I'd had a scrap of paper and a pencil with me one Sunday morning. It was above Dog Town, and only half a mile from our cabin.”

“How many in your party?”

“Alone—that is, the woman was with me— Well, I'd passed that spot a hundred times. This Sunday I was making for Dog Town for a bit of fun. Happened to notice what looked like signs in the gulch wall. Stopped and scratched with my case knife that I used on crevices. Inside of two minutes I had ten dollars' worth of coarse gold. But I didn't have any paper or pencil, and couldn't put up a notice, showing size and direction of my claim. Being Sunday, and every one flocking to town, I left the case knife by the ledge and went on. I run my ten dollars in coarse gold up to two hundred at monte. Then lost it and what loose money I had, besides. When I went back to the cabin late that afternoon two fellers was in that gulch and had it posted. Wolf, that gulch paid a million, folks told me afterwards. I never got a smell. Talk about rotten luck!”

The wolfer started to laugh, but stopped to say:

“And talk about costly monte games! Why, Gil, you gambled away a million one Sunday afternoon! Or, put it this way. You once owned a million dollar case knife! Good land! Why didn't you turn back to your cabin and write out your notice?”

“Just what I'd done. I'd done that very thing. But there was my woman. She'd got on my nerves. We'd had a row. I don't mind when a woman rips and tears. But when they just sit still 'n' cry—oh, I can't stand that.”

The wild laughter could no longer be suppressed. It roared and howled above the wind, When he could speak, the wolfer's voice was low and unsteady.

“You've given me a new thought, Gil. Besides the million dollar game and the million dollar knife you had a million dollar row with a million dollar woman, who had million dollar nerves and busted into a million dollar crying spell.” Then the wild laughter again. He concluded by saying, “How she must 'a' combed you when she found you'd kicked away a fortune!”

“Well, she didn't,” growled Gilkil, “and I don't like that hyena laugh of yours. She didn't. She'd learned better than to try any of them games. She wouldn't done any combing, anyway. She didn't seem to care about gold. Queer that way.”

The wolfer nodded and placed two big frying pans on the coals, and said:

“You'll be the second white man to see my gold. I'm the first. We can eat in a few minutes.”

“Why not have a drink of our whisky. Just to cel'brate the first line of bait?”

“No, Gil. You'd have a head in the morning; for you'd want more'n one drink. Time enough for a spree after the season's ended, or—but that wouldn't be a spree.”

“Or what?”

“I was going to say after one of us happens to git bit by a mad wolf.”

“Will whisky cure a man?”

“No, no. Don't believe he could feel it, but I never see it tried. But if it did work a man might miss lots of suffering.”

III

There came the first thaw. The two men worked early and late, skinning a hundred wolves along Gilkil's line of bait. Gilkil soon proved himself to be an adept, and the thaw held on long enough to permit the cleaning up of the second and longer line. They enjoyed a great advantage over other wolfers; there was no red peril to guard against. The thaw ended just as the skinning was completed, and the scattered wolf carcasses served as new bait, supplemented by an aged bull.

By this time Gilkil was as hairy and disheveled as his partner. He was less loquacious and given to moody meditations after the day's work was finished. He could run his line alone. He bore himself as one sullenly waiting to be released. The wolfer had not announced how the profits would be split. One evening Gilkil inquired as to what would be his share.

“Your share will be a fair one, Gilly. You'll git all you deserve,” the wolfer assured.

“I don't care what it is, Wolf. Asked just for the sake of talking. Oh, hell, these stinking hides! All I can think of, Wolf, is that gold. Don't seem as if I could rest natural till I've had my hooks in it.”

A few nights later the wolfer sat and stared at the fire a long time. Ordinarily he essayed to prompt a flow of reminiscences from his partner. At last Gilkil took notice of his abstractions and came out of his sullenness to querulously demand:

“Why don't you say something? My nerves are all out of joint.”

“I was thinking,” mumbled the wolfer without removing his pipe and without shifting his brooding gaze, “you ain't been much of a hand to talk, yourself, I was thinking.”

“Don't think; talk,” rapped out Gilkli.

“Yes. That's it. The loneliness is gnawing too deep into your nerves. Got me that way at first; that and other things. I don't want you going mad and biting like a wolf.”

“What you driving at now?”

“I'm opining to stop your thinking about lonesomeness so much,” slowly replied the wolfer; and he took the pipe from his mouth and turned to meet his partner's gaze. “Look here. I'd planned to wait till the season was about ended, but I won't wait that long. After the next clean-up I'll take you to my cache of gold. Diggings are too far away. Can't go there till warm weather. But I can show you rich samples; quarts of nuggets.”

“Quarts of nuggets!” It was a new Gilkil towering above the wolfer. “Near here?”

“Not so awful far. That's as much as I'll tell now.”

“Why haven't you shown me before, Wolf?”

“You'd be thinking only of gold and the number of women you could buy. You wouldn't be worth a hoot on a bait line. You'd just keep chawing over in your mind—gold, gold. You'd never think of the gold on the back of a wolf.”

“Now you've changed your mind about waiting?”

“Yes. You need perking up. After the next thaw; after we've fetched in the next lot of pelts.”

This left Gilkil feverish with excitement. He did not have to fight his impatience long, however. The thaw came over night, brought by the warm chinook. Gilkil worked his line alone; worked like one driven by demons. He scarcely paused to rest, or eat, until the skins were stacked to freeze on top of and behind the cabin. The night which marked the end of the second harvesting he stood in the middle of the small room, his head bowed to escape the slanting roof, and demanded—

“Now!”

“Yes, Gil, in the morning. We ought to be baiting up, but a wild man ain't any good. We'll lose only a bit of the day. Start early and git back soon.”

“Gawd! I'll sit up all night. I can't sleep.”

“Foolishness. Gold will be as common to you as a woman. You never set up all night on account of a woman, I'll bet.”

Gilkil laughed bitterly, and confessed—

“Once, but I was young and much of a fool.”

Nevertheless, Gilkil did sleep that night, and was sleeping soundly when the wolfer turned out and raked ashes from the coals and set about pre paring the breakfast. He did not want to waste time eating. Swallowing a dipper of coffee and grabbing some bacon, he started to get the horses.

“We're walking; come back,” the wolfer called after him.

Gilkil was amazed that the cache should be that close to the cabin. He felt he had been deceived, and despite his lust to be handling the treasure he was embittered by what he considered to be a deception. He barely hinted as much, but the wolfer understood, and genially said:

“If you'd known how close it was, you wouldn't be worth a cuss. Well, we'll start—and highty-tighty women will bow down to it—a piece of yaller ore!”

He talked none as he led the way through the scattered cottonwoods for a mile up the valley. His mood was almost somber as he turned to the base of the cliffs. Gilkil now was like one joyously intoxicated. He sang snatches of old songs. The singing aroused the wolfer enough for him to ask over his shoulder—

“Where'd you learn that stuff?”

“Singing school, down in Indianny. Twenty years ago.”

“Er-huh? Sort of pretty, but lonesome like.”

Gilkil trembled violently as his partner halted at the cliff and quietly announced—

“We've come to it.”

Gilkil panted heavily, like an exhausted runner. The wolfer loosened the earth with his knife, then stepped back and invited:

“Dig. Comb it out with your fingers.”

Gilkil dropped on his knees, and like a famished wolf after a rabbit began pawing out the dirt. He yelled hoarsely on coming to the first of the nuggets. Then he was pawing dirt and more nuggets against his knees. When he paused, the sweat was streaming down his face. He glanced wildly at the wolfer and gasped:

“My Gawd, man! You've got a fortune in this hole alone!”

“I've kept my promise. Take what you've dug out and cover the rest with dirt. Time to be at work.”

He filled his hat and stuffed his pockets full. Then he stared wolfishly as his partner carelessly kicked the loose earth over the hole. He reluctantly followed the wolfer down the valley, but walked slowly because of his precious hat and bulging pockets. The wolfer glanced back impatiently, then laughed and said—

“You walk like an old man who's mortal feeble.”

“Don't want to jostle any out,” muttered Gilkil, his staring eyes watching the brimming hat held in both hands before him.

Carelessly the wolfer remarked—

“I'm hoping you'll be better company from now on.”

“Must be a big fortune back in that hole right now, Wolf.”

Without turning the wolfer replied:

“Oh, from seventy to ninety thousand. Just guessing in a rough way.”

“Land of glory! And you pelting poisoned wolves! Dangerous, you say, going to your diggings?”

“A trifle. Outside of Lame Bull's range. Yes, I'll say mighty dangerous. One way or t'other; you come back or you don't.”

“When you was there you oughter packed back twice as much!”

“What I've needed is work. No one can find the place. It'll wait for me. But I've needed work. Your company's done a heap of good. Learned lots of new things. About women, in particular. Now we'll look over the short line and call it day.”

“But just what chance would a man run in making your diggings?”

“Ten to one. Fifty to one. I don't know. Of course he'd have to know where they was first. Injuns would git him, or they wouldn't. If he loaded pack animals and had to come slow, they'd git him.”

They ran the short line and were back at dark. Gilkil went inside to replenish the fire while his partner remained to take care of the skins they had brought back. Before entering the cabin the wolfer stood at the robe and gently lifted a flap. He smiled grimly and softly retreated and commenced whistling. His entrance was advertised ahead. Once inside he ceased whistling and sniffed the air. Then he was gently rebuking Gilkil—

“You've been trifling with the whisky.”

“Had to, Wolf. Nerves jumping that bad.”

“No harm, if it don't start you on a drunk.”

“Drunk?” repeated Gilkil; and he laughed boisterously. “Why, in the morning you'll never know I had a drink.”

The wolfer opened his mouth in one of his silent laughs. Gilkil was deliriously exultant as he attempted to help with the supper. He sang. He asked many questions about the secret diggings and did not wait for an answer. As they were eating, the wolfer said—

“If one drink will make a man cut up and act so all fired happy, I'm glad you took it.”

“Just had to have it. But the morning will find me sober enough. I'll bet there's an even hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold in that hole this very minute.”

“Prob'ly. Just guessing in a rough way.”

After the meal was finished and their pipes were lighted Gilkil's nervousness increased instead of diminishing. His partner noticed his condition and abruptly decided—

“You might as well be drunk as a crazy jumping jack!”

With that he picked up the jug and poured half a pint into a tin basin and extended it to his partner and invited—

“Drink.”

For a few moments Gilkil did not accept the thing he so ardently had desired. Then he grabbed the dish and swallowed the fiery portion without taking it from his lips. Soon he quieted down and pulled off his boots. The wolfer refilled his pipe and smoked. Gilkil stretched out on his blankets. Finishing the pipe, the wolfer filled it for the third time. Gilkil suddenly asked—

“Ain't you smoked enough?”

“Not yet. Pretty soon. Got some thinking I must finish.”

Wolf was still smoking when Gilkil fell asleep. Gilkil still slept when, near dawn, the wolfer rose and noiselessly raked back the ashes and placed dry fuel on the coals, a stick at a time. Then the wolfer stood beside the sleeper and slipped a hand under the blankets at the head of the pallet. As he glided to the swaying robe and gently pulled it one side his mouth was open in a silent laugh.

Hurrying up the valley a short distance, he unearthed the rawhide box Lame Bull had given him. Near the camp he opened this and took out the skin of a big white wolf. The skin included the entire scalp of the beast with the two jaws of grinning teeth. Beads of green glass served as eyes. After peering through the curtain, the wolfer threw the hide over his tall figure and dropped on all fours. The open jaws jutted from his forehead.

Crawling by the hanging robe, Wolf halted at the foot of the couch, where Gilkil's bare foot and ankle was exposed. Gently clamping the jaws about the foot he reached forward a hand and struck down smartly on the nose of the grim figurehead.

Thus aroused from sleep Gilkil muttered an oath, then was screaming like a madman as he beheld the head of an enormous white wolf receding by the robe, the eyes two green emeralds of malevolence. He reached under the blankets for his gun, and could not find it. Outside came the quick bang-bang of a Colt; and the next moment the wolfer was in the room, blowing the smoke from the long barrel.

“The wolf! The mad wolf! Did you see it?” yelled Gilkil.

“Shot him. Don't fret. You're—”

The wolfer did not finish. He was staring at Gilkil's left leg. He dropped beside the couch and examined the limb. Gilkil sat up and bent forward. Stark terror filled his eyes as he beheld it, one tiny abrasion, one drop of blood. The wolfer squatted on his heels and stared at the man.

“Why don't you speak? Why don't you do something?” raved Gilkil.

The wolfer rose to his feet and slowly announced—

“Gilkil, there is no cure for the bite of a mad wolf.”

“Think I'm going to suffer like that? Like what you've told about? Why should I suffer like that?”

“Joe Gilkil, I don't know unless it's along of the poor dead woman you left in Californy.”

“I won't die! What's the matter with you? Damn you! What do you mean about that woman?” And again he thrust his hand under the bedding.

“You're gun's gone. I saw you hide it. You decided to kill me and take what I have in my cache.”

“What's anything got to do with this? I've been bitten by a mad wolf!”

“And there's no cure. But you've had what you wanted. Women! Gold! Think of the woman who got on your nerves. Did no man from Indianny never run across you and give you my message? That I'd kill you like a mad wolf, sometime?”

“Never Rance Peters?” whispered Gilkil. Then he remembered his wounded leg and was yelling, “Ghost, or devil! I won't die from madness.”

“If you'd been good to her after stealing her. If I'd found she'd been happy—but you killed her. It would been kinder if you'd shot her. You took her to die, heart broken, among strangers.”

Then the terrible laugh again, and had Gilkil not been submerged in horror he he would have realized how close to the edge of life he had stood each time he heard that raucous outburst.

“I told you'd split fair. Give what you deserved. I promised gold. It shall be buried with you. Had you been brokenhearted over the girl's death... Had you loved her...”

Gilkil floundered about on the bed, but seemed to be pinned down. The wolfer inexorably went on:

“For two seasons I've waited for you to come up the river. Last spring a man from home told me you were back. Alone. He said you would come by boat to Benton, as you was 'fraid to cross the plains. For two seasons I've watched the boats. Then you came, false friend, woman stealer, and worst of all, woman abuser. Damn you! You even wore the poor girl's pin. And had you said you'd never part with it, that it belonged to some one you loved, some one who had gone away and left you—But you were willing to sell it. Gilkil, you killed yourself that day on the Fort Benton levee when you sold me the pin. Now die a mad wolf!”

He turned away and stared down at the fire, unheeding the mad screams that filled the cabins. When exhaustion silenced Gilkil for a bit the wolfer produced the gun he had taken from the bed and removed all but one cartridge. Gilkil watched him. The wolfer stepped to the couch and said slowly:

“I'll show you more mercy than you showed my poor wife. One shot in this gun. I'm giving it to you. Then I'm going outside. You can use it on me, you can't miss. Or—” Without bothering to complete the sentence he dropped the gun on the bed and slowly went to and by the robe.

Red voices were calling him. Ponies were scrambling down the twisted path. Lame Bull was in the lead. Galloping up to the wolfer he threw himself to the ground and said:

“Your red father comes to sit in your lodge. What does your father see in your face?”

“My father's wolf medicine is very strong. It makes a man kill himself. The man, a long time ago, stole my woman. He was not good to her. The wolf medicine came in the night and bit him like this.”

Wolf gently pinched the wrist of the chief between his thumb and finger. Then he pointed to the rawhide box with the jaws and baleful eyes of the white wolf hanging out. He pointed toward the cabin. The muffled report of a heavy gun shattered the silence. All but the chief and the wolfer raced forward to enter the cabin.

When they emerged they were patting their open hands against their lips to express their great amazement. The wolfer seized the chief by the arm and said:

“All you find in there belongs to you, except some gold in the white man's pockets. Hide the gold with the white man in the ground. I go to find and bring back a woman, who died because she was so far from home. After another winter watch for me from the Sweet Grass Hills.”

(Illustration)