The valley was long and broad enough to hide his tiny herd well. He swung the Appaloosa west, reasoning that the cattle might be hunkered down in the trees against the wind and cold.
Powder flew from the big horse’s hooves as they went. Flakes soon covered the arms and back of Jim’s heavy coat. They crossed the narrow creek. The water was shallow here, but along the banks, under the weight of horse and rider, thin sheets of ice shattered like glass.
It’ll freeze solid if it gets much colder. We’ll have to chop ice to draw water, or head down to the lake.
The lake at the west end of the valley wasn’t large, maybe fifty acres in total. Deep enough, though, that David didn’t think it would freeze. From his time living in Illinois, he knew of such things, certainly more than Jim. In South Texas he’d never considered the odds of a lake freezing. The creek drained the valley, feeding the lake, and then the lake spilled over the valley rim, into another stream that flowed west before joining the Feather River.
The cattle weren’t in the trees at the west end of the valley, nor were there any tracks or sign of them.
But how long would tracks last in snow like this? No more than an hour.
Jim studied the trees and lake, considering where else they might be. Finding a handful of cows in so large a valley would not prove easy. In the summer he’d spent two days riding in a loop around all of it. And that in good weather. Fighting drifts up to his hocks, the Appaloosa wouldn’t make nearly so much progress.
They’ll want some place warm, near water, with forage if possible.
Any of the trees would offer both warmth and shelter out of the wind. As for water, near the lake was the best bet, but the creek wasn’t yet frozen, not completely, so water was more plentiful than it soon would be.
Forage, though. That will be scarce.
There was a hilly spot on the north side of the valley. There would be deep drifts on the downwind side of those hills, but that same wind might scour the other side clear.
It wasn’t far, and Jim made it there in quick order. To his relief, most of the cattle were lying just inside the edge of the tree line, chewing contentedly. Jim counted them and came up short three cows.
Now where will those be?
From where they lay, the cattle had cleared a path into the hills, and he directed the Appaloosa up it. An hour later, he found the first carcass. There wasn’t much left, scattered bones and sinew and blood-stained snow. Predators had been at it, but he knew at once it was one of his cows.
He couldn’t find anything that told him what had killed her. There wasn’t enough of the body left for that. Jim had last ridden through the cattle the day the snow started and they’d all been healthy then. There was exposed grass around and only a few days had passed, so it wasn’t starvation or thirst.
He saw several black birds flapping in the distance and rode closer. Buzzards picked at the remains, but little more was left of the second cow than the first.
Shooing the buzzards away, Jim climbed out of the saddle to study the remains. He still couldn’t see what might have killed her.
The wind shifted a little to the south, and he heard something then. The bawling of a cow, along with several yips and howls.
Jim jumped into the saddle and spurred the Appaloosa into a hard run. They topped a long rise and Jim drew his rifle. The cow stood below, ankle-deep in water, backed against an embankment in the creek and staring down a dozen wolves. Even as he watched, a wolf darted in and nipped at the cow’s flank. She turned to fend him off and two more pounced from the opposite side. The cow whipsawed her head, forcing the pair back, striking one with a hard horn. It whimpered and flew clear.
The rifle in Jim’s hand bucked, and the wolf nearest the cow staggered. He levered in a fresh round as the pack looked at him, then shot a second, the largest of them. When it fell, the others broke and ran for the trees. Jim fired a third time, though he missed. The pack vanished over the next hill, all but the small gray one the cow had wounded earlier with her horn. He sat on the hill’s crest, well outside rifle range, and watched.
“No quit in you, is there? I can admire that, but it won’t earn you an easy meal today,” Jim said.
Jim rode down to study the cow. A long strip of hide hung from her hip and there was a deep, bleeding wound around her neck. Even if she had survived the battle, the wolves would certainly return to finish her off. The barn, where she might be safe, was miles off. She’d never make it.
Jim put the rifle to her ear and squeezed off a shot. Then he set to work with his knife, taking what meat he could.
Jim laid out the hide and bundled the meat inside. Then he skinned both wolves and took their hides as well. The cow dressed out more meat than the Appaloosa could carry, even if Jim walked, so he rigged up a travois out of a few long pine branches the stream had carried down.
The gray wolf watched him work. Jim thought about taking a shot at him, but the distance was too great.
No need to waste a bullet.
What daylight remained was a dull gray when he finally started the walk back toward the cabin. He considered what might be done to keep the wolves off his thin herd. Three cows in as many days. If that pace held, he’d be out of cattle in two months’ time. What would they do then? There was game if you knew where to find it. Jim and Ellen alone might have lived off the land. But they had two little ones and the rest of her family. Too many mouths to feed off a few deer and elk. The children would need milk as well. Abigail, Ellen’s mother, hadn’t been feeling well for a few days. She couldn’t do with less to eat.
Step by trudging step, Jim walked on. It would be dark and cold when he reached home. He would have to come up with a way to save the cattle, and Ellen…Ellen would know what to do for money if they needed it.
Jim slapped his arms to knock the snow free. The wind rose to a howl and grew colder. Thoughts of a fire and a hot meal warmed him.
Ellen will have a nice, hot stew ready. A good meal, and then we’ll see about those wolves.
* * * *
Ellen opened the cabin’s front door and scowled. The storm had picked up, and her husband was still out in it. The flakes were bigger than they’d been this morning, falling faster, and driven by the force of the wind. She took a long breath and held it, trying to keep herself calm.
Jim is a grown man. He knows how to survive; he will be fine.
She closed the door slowly, desperately hoping to catch some sign of his arrival over the wind’s low howl.
David, her father, sat on a log by the fire. The cabin had barely been finished before winter, and Jim hadn’t the time to make proper chairs. In the meantime, they’d make do with rounds of wood leftover from the cabin’s construction.
“She’s not getting any better,” David said. He ran a hand through his steel-gray hair.
Ellen could see the bags under her father’s eyes. The past few nights had aged him by a decade. He hadn’t been sleeping. Neither had she. From the adjoining room, her mother coughed. Abigail was hoarse now; she’d been coughing for days.
“How is her fever?”
“Too high.” David stood up and paced to the door. “She’s burning up with it.”
Last night Abigail had been delirious, calling for her mother and father, who’d both been dead for twenty years. The children were in the other room with Colton, Ellen’s brother. Martha, Ellen’s younger sister, was in with their mother now.
