The Old Wolves (30 page)

EPILOGUE

A week later, Spurr reined Cochise to a halt on a low bluff overlooking his cabin on the slopes of Mount Rosalie. He reached forward and patted the horse's sleek neck, glad to be astraddle his old friend and trail partner again.

He'd been thrilled when, after the dustup at the Merriam place near Longmont, he'd found Cochise fit as a fiddle in the Merriam's corral. Apparently one of the outlaws, probably Keneally himself, had appropriated the fine roan stallion.

Keneally might have been a no-good scoundrel, but he'd known good horseflesh when he'd seen it—Spurr would give him that.

Spurr had left Boomer Drago with the old outlaw's daughter and son-in-law. Sonja and Cliff Merriam had agreed to take him in and provide a home for the old wolf. Despite the trouble he'd caused by sending them the stolen bank loot, they'd realized he'd only done it to help their family and to provide for their crippled boy, Irvin.

Spurr had ridden away with the loot—or what had been left of it after Cliff Merriam had spent some of it, which, under the circumstances, no one could blame him for.

But Spurr had left the family with Drago and that, Spurr thought now, chuckling, wasn't much of an exchange for them. But when Spurr and Greta had ridden out of the yard the next day following the shootout, Drago had been sitting on the porch with his grandson, filling the kid's ears with the start of what would likely be one of many long windies to come.

So Irvin had gotten a grandfather out of the deal, and by the wide-eyed, admiring look on the child's face, he'd thought that was a fine exchange, indeed . . .

Now Spurr sat Cochise atop the bluff and stared down at his old, weather-silvered log cabin and the stable and privy flanking the humble place. Mount Rosalie was a vast cone rising atop a broad evergreen plateau behind the cabin, to the west, draped in the ermine of the recent snowfall.

Several feet had fallen on those higher slopes. Down here, a foot now mantled the slopes with here and there a patch of sage spiking through. The snow drooped down over the roof of Spurr's cabin. Icicles that had been nurtured by the sun earlier in the day now hung from the eaves, frozen up solid again in the wake of the sun's recent colorful plunge down the backside of Rosalie.

Spurr's breath steamed the air around him. It was a cold, gray world out here, growing darker by the second. It would get colder and grayer the farther he tumbled into winter, living out here alone with only his dog though he couldn't see the mutt anywhere around.

Maybe Dawg had run off to warmer climes.

Spurr had turned in his badge earlier that day. And he and Henry Brackett had had a glass of brandy and a cigar together. And that had been it.

A lonely ache spiked through Spurr now as he stared down at the quiet cabin. All the crazy, wild, colorful years had come to this—a withered old man sitting out here in the cold winter twilight staring at a weathered old mountain cabin little larger than a whore's crib, dark and quiet as the grave.

“Should have gone to Mexico.”

Too late for that now. Too late in the year. Too cold to make the trip. He'd live up here for the winter. If he was alive come spring, he'd figure out something else.

Most likely, he wouldn't have to worry about that, he thought now, noting the iron crab in his chest that each day seemed to be chomping a little harder on his ticker.

He looked at Mount Rosalie, quickly losing the last of the thin salmon rays cast by the dying sun, and then shuttled his gaze down those lonely slopes to his cabin once more. Faint lines dug into the dark brown bridge of his nose as he gazed at what appeared to be thin gray tendrils rising from his stone chimney to unfurl against the darkening sky.

Smoke? How could that be? He'd headed for Denver early that morning to turn in his badge and the stolen money. By now, his morning fire should have burned down to cold gray ashes.

An umber light flickered to life in the cabin's front windows, setting a muscle to twitching in Spurr's right cheek.

Someone was inside.

He reached over and slid his Winchester '66 from his saddle boot, cocking the rifle one-handed. The cabin door opened with a squawk, and he looked down at the hovel to see a slender female figure in a form-fitting cream dress step outside, holding a lantern.

“Spurr?” Greta called, canting her head to one side, staring up the slope. A dog yodeled inside the cabin and then came running out into the yard, barking. Dawg looked toward Spurr and then gave a yip and bolted up the side of the bluff, sprinting full out, whimpering happily, in Spurr's direction.

Spurr slid the rifle back into its boot and gigged the horse on down the slope. Dawg ran up to meet the old lawman, barking a delighted greeting and wildly wagging his tail. The mutt swung around to run along beside Spurr and Cochise as they dropped down into the yard.

Spurr reined up in front of the porch and stared down at the girl staring up at him, smiling and holding the lantern. She looked clean and fresh. She'd piled her hair atop her head, leaving a few delicate curls to dangle down along her smooth cheeks.

Spurr was incredulous. Two days ago, he'd put her on the train to Cheyenne, where she'd intended to look for work. What most folks would call “decent” work.

“What on earth,” Spurr said, his tone belying the rapid, delighted skipping of his heart.

Greta hiked a shoulder and looked around. “I don't know, Spurr. I got to Cheyenne and I was so damn lonesome without you, all I could do was cry. So I bought a ticket and came back.” She looked up at him again. “You don't mind, do you?”

Spurr just stared down at her, puzzled.

“I figured you're alone . . . and I'm alone. The least we could do was keep each other company over the winter.” Greta smiled down at Dawg who sat near her, staring up at her and wagging his tail. “Your dog likes me. At least, he liked the stew bones I just fed him.”

Spurr swung heavily out of the saddle, dropped the reins, walked up to Greta, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Girl, you got better things to do than spend a winter up here in this godforsaken place with a tired old man with a run-down ticker.”

She sucked her lips in and shook her head. “Not really, no.”

“I'm three times your age.”

“You're younger than you think you are. And I'm older than you think I am.”

“I may not make it through the winter.”

She nodded, blinked. “Me, neither.”

Spurr looked at the open door. Inside, flames danced in the hearth. “God, somethin' smells good.”

“I got beef stew cookin'. You tend Cochise, and we'll have a whiskey together in front of the fire, and then we'll eat and curl each other's toes.” She smiled up at him devilishly from beneath her brows. “What do you say?”

Spurr took Greta in his arms and kissed her long and hard. He gave her rump a playful swat as she strode back into the cabin to pour the whiskey. She winked at him before she closed the door.

And the man who walked his horse around the cabin to the stable, his dog barking after him, was about thirty years younger than the one who'd ridden into the yard only a few minutes earlier.

“Fellas, here's all I got to say about the recent turn of events,” Spurr said to his horse and Dawg as he approached the stable, moccasins crunching the new-fallen snow. “To hell with Mexico.”

Peter Brandvold
has penned over seventy fast-action western novels under his own name and his pen name,
Frank Leslie
. He is the author of the ever-popular .45-Caliber books featuring Cuno Massey as well as the Ben Stillman, Rogue Lawman, Lou Prophet, and Yakima Henry novels. He wrote the horror-western novel,
Dust of the Damned
, featuring ghoul hunter Uriah Zane. Head honcho at Mean Pete Press, publisher of harrowing western and horror ebooks, novellas, and stories, he lives in Colorado with his dogs. Visit his website at www.peterbrandvold.com. Follow his blog at www.peterbrandvold.blogspot.com.