Concerning this narrative, Mr. Wood writes: “I was a boy at the
time, living with my parents on the plains, the nearest point of
civilization being Fort Hayes, now Hayes City, Kansas. The doctor
had occasion to ride out to our place, and told us of his adventure,
and the sequel, much as I have set it down.”
It was Christmas Eve.
“Hear that wind?” said Dr. McDonnell. “It sounds like a pack of wolves,
the way it howls; and the snow means to keep on coming.”
“Yes, and stayin’,” answered the cow-puncher, nodding gravely at the
stove.
“Not a nice night to go walking,” ventured the tenderfoot; “in fact, I
think I’d rather be here. It’d take a bit to get me out--and Christmas
Eve, too. As you say, doctor, the wind _does_ sound like wolves; and no
doubt if one were out they’d find the wolves--or the wolves find them.”
“No doubt whatever, young feller,” remarked the puncher, dryly. “Wolves
_are_ out this weather for grub; and when they’re out for grub they’re out
on a business trip, dead sure.”
The doctor bit the end off a fresh cigar.
“Do you boys want a story?” said he.
“Go ahead, doc,” replied the cow-puncher, proffering a match. And the
doctor, after lighting up, went ahead to the following effect.
* * * * *
Well, boys, it’s a long time ago now--a Christmas Eve, too--way back in
the ’seventies, when things on the prairies were very different. It was
usual in those days to get a brush with the Utes or the Cheyennes pretty
regularly once or twice a month.
The twenty-third of December was a bright, sunny day, with not more than
three or four inches of snow on the plains. Over the thin snow-crust
galloped Jimmie Dink--“Darky Dink” we called him, because of his swarthy
hair and skin.
“Doc,” said he, pulling his broncho up short before me, “Wolfie Jim’s
about done. Can’t you go to him? He’s ’most busted up.”
Poor old Wolfie! I knew why.
Some time previously he had run in among his dogs, which were attacking a
timber wolf they had turned up on the creek bank. He intended to knife it,
as he had done many a time before, but the old fellow, maybe, was not so
agile as formerly, and things had gone a bit wrong. Anyhow, he’d knifed
the wolf all right, but the wolf bit his foot badly, and Wolfie doctored
it in his own peculiar manner with unlimited bad whisky, taken both
outside and in. Well, the foot didn’t heal, and Wolfie couldn’t understand
it.
He was one of the old fur-cap-and-buckskin-shirt trappers who never
consulted even a medicine-man, let alone a white doctor. I’d stopped at
his shack once or twice and got a liking for the quaint old fellow, so I
told Darky to get one of the boys to put a saddle on my old horse Pete
while I got my “murder-bag,” as they called my medicine outfit, and was
soon ready for Wolfie and his trouble.
Away loped Pete over the beautiful glistening prairie; I could have found
my way to Wolfie’s with my eyes shut.
It occurred to me soon that I was foolish not to have brought a heavier
overcoat, but I knew if I didn’t start on my return journey before sundown
I could either stay with old Wolf or borrow something to make me warm;
besides, although it was December, it was one of those prairie days that
would almost fool a wise man into the belief that it was spring.
I shall never forget the shock I received as I pushed the door of the
little hut open. I had started with my case full of all I thought I
should want--even to vitriol, in case of a last resource. But Wolfie was
beyond my skill. He lay stretched out on his blankets, dead, with his two
dead hounds beside him. There was a half-empty bottle in his left hand and
a big six-shooter in his right. There were three cartridges in the
revolver and three empty shells. The old man and both hounds had each been
killed with a bullet through the head.
[Illustration: “HE LAY STRETCHED OUT ON HIS BLANKETS, DEAD, WITH HIS TWO
DEAD HOUNDS BESIDE HIM.”]