Longarm and the Cry of the Wolf (9781101619506) by Tabor Evans Page B

to be gradually growing nearer.
    Beneath the yips and occasional howls, hooves thudded. The thudding, too, grew in volume and then it was coupled with men’s harried voices. Longarm looked up the slope to see riders coming along the trail, showing glimpses of themselves between the trees. They were jouncing in their saddles, leaning forward, their horses’ heads bobbing as they galloped up the slope toward Longarm’s position. The riders were all clad in furs—good quality furs, it appeared from Longarm’s vantage point.
    The general’s hunting party?
    The yipping continued getting louder in small increments, but judging by how the riders galloping up the trail kept casting wary looks behind them, toward the coyotes—or wolves—they believed the madly yipping creatures were chasing them.
    Longarm rose and grabbed his rifle. He looked at Goldie, who must have heard the noise in his sleep. As the outlaw leaned to one side, head sagging toward the ground, he muttered and blinked and moved his lips like a dreaming dog. A dog dreaming about being chased.
    Longarm walked over and kicked the man’s left boot. “Goldie, get up.” He heard the tautness in his own voice. The apprehension. If the yips were coming from wolves, there must have been at least a small pack of the creatures. And from what he’d seen of them so far, he and Goldie had best get on up the trail toward Crazy Kate.
    â€œGoldie,” he said, louder, above the thundering of riders’ hooves on the trail above him. He turned to see the shaggy line of them galloping on upstream and upslope beyond him, none looking toward him, their attention riveted on the trail ahead or the trail behind.
    Longarm’s and Goldie’s horses snorted and stomped and tugged at their reins tied to pine branches.
    Longarm grabbed Goldie’s coat collar and pulled the man to his feet and held him there. Goldie stumbled around as though drunk. “Wha—what is it?”
    â€œWe’re pullin’ foot, so get your damn land legs, and get ’em fast!”
    Longarm emptied his coffeepot on the steaming flames, kicked dirt, snow, and rocks on the fire, and stowed the pot in his saddlebags. As Goldie looked around, blinking and wincing against the pain of the wolf bite, Longarm brushed past him as he headed for their horses. He slung his saddlebags over the bay’s back, behind the saddle, and then slid his rifle into its scabbard.
    Meanwhile, the yips and howls and occasional snarls continued to grow louder, but the wolves seemed to be hanging back for some reason. If they were giving chase, it was a slow, cautious chase. Why? Were they aware in the wolfish, cunning brains that their prey had weapons that could hurt them?
    Goldie had stopped near the horses and was staring down canyon through the snowy brush and over-arching pine boughs. “Shit, that’s wolves, ain’t it? They’re comin’ fer us!”
    â€œI don’t know who they’re comin’ for exactly, but I do know that it sounds like a few of ’em. We’d best haul our asses on up the trail.” Longarm went over and grabbed the man’s collar, giving him a hard jerk and throwing him against his horse. “Get mounted!”
    He didn’t bother with the handcuffs. Goldie wasn’t going anywhere but where Longarm was heading—to the sanctuary of Crazy Kate.
    Longarm swung onto the bay’s back and reined the mount up the hill through the pines. The yips and squeals were getting louder, but as he stared down the trail, the fresh snow on which had been ruffled by the passing riders, he saw nothing. There were only trees and rocks and the creek all swaddled in the grayness of the low sky and the lazily falling snow. It was almost as though the wolves, if that’s what was out there, were invisible.
    Longarm half-scoffed at the thought, but the apprehension dragging cold fingers up and down his back was