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The White Wolf
Benjamin Green
He peered at the world through the fish eye of his six-power scope. It almost felt like he was cheating, but it was a sign of his growing prosperity.
Besides, this was war. The wolves might regard the cattlemen’s stock as easy pickings, be they sheep or cows. Still, they would have to reckon with him. They preyed on the weak and helpless, and he was the predator they had learned to fear.
The few wolves that would even come near now approached with great wariness. It was a measure of success in his one-man war against wolves, and an indication he should probably quit soon.
That thought brought on a parade of mixed emotions in him. Part of him craved the thrill of the hunt, the pitting of his wits against the beast. He had thought like a wolf for so long, he found it was hard to get out of the mindset.
No, that wasn’t quite true. Wolves killed for food. His killing was to feed a deeper, more primordial needÉ
He found himself becoming disturbed by the run of his thoughts. Just then, he saw his target come stalking into view. He put aside his quandary.
It was clear the wolf had reservations about the action he was taking. He would trot forward a couple of steps, before hesitating, his ears twisting back. Then he would start forward again.
It was clear the way his ribs were outlined against his fur that hunger was impelling him. Probably it was the smell of death that was holding him back. A lot of his brethren had met their end here. Still, the need to eat spurred him on.
He remained still, moving only to scoop some snow into his mouth, lest his breathing give him away. The wolf had abandoned caution, loping toward the sheep pen.
He waited and waited, the trigger only a half-pound away from breaking. He wanted his enemy close enough to taste the prize, before he rang down the curtain.
The wolf crouched, in preparation for his leap over the sheep pen. He grinned as he stroked the trigger. The wolf seemed to leap into the air, going spraddle-legged. Then he toppled over sideways, surrendering to the inevitability of death.
He let out a whoop of triumph, and began running toward the prone animal. It seemed infuriated by its immediate destruction, because its muzzle was pulled back in a snarl.
With the last flickering embers of life, the wolf glowered at the man who killed him. Whether there was any recognition or not, it was difficult to say, since the eyes glazed over in death.
He spent a moment gloating over his latest triumph. Then he pulled out a Buck knife, and began to skin the carcass.
The government man ran his fingers down what had once been the spine of the wolf pelt. “It’s a beautiful specimen.”
The hunter nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement. “It’s one less wolf killing cattle, that much is certain.”
The government man looked up, squinting through his spectacles. “You have to admit that they are beautiful creatures.”
The hunter snorted, and crossed his arms over his chest. “They’re pests is what they are.”
“Everyone has to eat, and it has been a bad winter. Even the livestock are struggling.”
The hunter shook his head. “I don’t care what they do. As long as the bounty remains where it is, I’m going to say that they’re fair game.”
The government man’s head bobbed. He had been given his opportunity, and he was going to take it. “Since you brought up the matter of the bountyÉ”
The hunter stiffened, then let out a long sigh. “I guess I knew this day was coming.”
The government man held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I can pay you the full twenty bucks for this one.”
He hesitated for a minute. “It is just that you have been too successful at what you do. The government has decided to reduce the bounty to five dollars.
“The cattlemen believe the wolf populations are now down to controllable levels, and there are those who have expressed concerns that they may be too low.” He neglected to mention he was the head of that movement.
The hunter’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
The government man shrugged. “A certain number of predators are necessary to keep the deer and moose populations in check.”
The hunter scratched his stubbled chin. “Y’know, I never thought of it that way.” He shrugged. “I think it’s time to retire Old Trusty.”
The government man’s eyebrows wagged up and down, then he shoved his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “There’s always, hunting, you know.”
They commiserated for a few minutes longer. Then he gave the other man his money. Once the hunter was gone, he picked up the phone. He had to pass the word along to his new friends at the Sierra Club.
Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring had done a lot to open the public’s eyes to the dangers of environmental degradation. He just had to remember what pseudonym he used with them. After all, having a conviction for violating the Hatch Act would put a crimp on his career.
He kissed the rifle, before putting it up on the rack. It was a Winchester Model 70, with the huge six-powered scope. It had been built just before the turn of the century, and was about sixty-five years old.
His grandfather had bought it for what was then frontier duty. By then, the Wild West was pretty much gone, having been tamed by the iron horse and the telegraph.
Already, it was being romanticized by Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Still, in more remote areas of the West, the law was an abstract concept, and order came out of the barrel of a gun.
His grandfather had marked out a homestead, and defended it with his trusty Winchester. When civilization at last began to encroach, his claim was recognized by dint of squatter’s rights.
He came from a long line of men that ate their daily bread from their ability to use a firearm. He knew he was the last, because his ex-wife had taken the children with her.
Maybe there were others who were keeping the family name and lineage alive. After all, President Johnson was seeking a resolution for an incident that had taken place called the Gulf of Tonkin.
A couple American destroyers had come under attack, and the president wanted to escalate. A war would mean a need for soldiers, and another generation of McCarters to get their baptism of blood.
He could care less, though. Even though he was only the fourth decade into his life, he was a living anachronism, and he knew it. The old rifle, and what it represented fired his blood. He chafed at the restraints of civilization.
He fantasized about the primeval battle of man versus nature, living off the land, being the biggest predator of all.
The ethic of the yeoman farmer was dying away. By the time he was born, America was already becoming urbanized as it grew into an industrial colossus.
Hunting wolves remained the last tenuous connection with the old order, and now even that was gone. He knew he would adapt and survive. Part of his ancestral heritage was Social Darwinism. However, it did nothing to lessen his feelings of alienation.
* * *
It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough to worry about. Double digit inflation and interest rates meant that money was tight, and the cattle business was capital intensive.
The oil shocks of the past few years had placed merry Hell with his business. His trucks needed gas to deliver the hay for the cows.
It was easy for President Carter to put on a sweater, and encourage people to turn down their thermostats. He was responsible for several thousand head of beef cattle, and his survival depended on their survival.
He was being squeezed by a government that was calling for national austerity, and environmentalists that begrudged him every resource he used.
Then there was bracket creep. That was threatening to sponge up in taxes what little profit he made. The business with the so-called white wolf was threatening to drive him out of business.
Like most of the cattle ranchers in the area, he was in debt up to his eyeballs, and the only reason the banks continued loaning money was to keep the loans on their books good.
The fact that someone, or something was killing cattle threatened to upset the delicate balance of things. The rumor making the rounds was it was some kind of albino wolf. Half as big as a regular wolf, so the stories went, and impervious to bullets.
Erik Mansfield was not one for listening to far-out tales, especially when the survival of his family was at stake. He intended to confront this so-called albino wolf, and see how impervious to bullets it was. Presuming it even existed.
He suspected it was some kind of varmint, or group of varmints that was responsible. It was clear that it was smarter than the average critter, since it had avoided all the traps laid for it. Still, he suspected that its success so far was causing his fellow ranchers to inflate it.
Rebecca, his wife, looked at him as she packed a thermos of coffee for him into his lunchbox. Her brow was knotted with concern. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He shrugged. “Do you have any better ideas, mother?”
She sighed. “I worry about you. What if something happens out there?”
He shrugged again. “If I meet a wolf, I have dad’s old rifle to take care of him.”
“What if it’s an environmentalist?”
He grinned. “I figure dad’s old gun will answer to the same purpose.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened to an O of astonishment. Then her eyebrows knitted, and she put her hands on her hips. “Erik Louis Mansfield! You shouldn’t even talk that way!”
He hung his head, a hangdog smile twisting his lips. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Then his eyes flicked upwards. “How ‘bout I promise to only wing him?”
She frowned, hands on her hips. “Now you’re being sexist! What if it’s a woman?”
He let out a war whoop, and slapped his thigh. “Yee-haw! If I rope and brand her, does that mean I get to keep her?”
Her arms crossed over her chest, her frown deepening into a scowl. “Absolutely not!” Then her eyes grew hooded. “What if she bites you? Who knows what you might end up with?”
She threw her arms up in the air, her eyes rolling upwards. “As if the veterinarian bills are not bad enough already!”
That broke him up. Her hardened carapace cracked under the strain of it, and she began to giggle.
He moved to put an arm around her waist, and give her a kiss. Then he whispered, “You needn’t worry your pretty little head about me, mommy. I’m going to have my best hired hand with me.
“The worst that’s likely to happen to me is I’ll miss a night of sleep. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get rid of the varmint.”
She frowned, and put her hands on her hips. “Don’t tell me not to worry! I’m your wife. It is my job and my prerogative.”
He snorted, then kissed her. “I know. It’s something I have to do. We cannot allow some animal to go around killing our cattle.”
She bent her head, and nodded. “I know, dearest. Just come back to me in one piece.”
He grinned and snorted a couple of times. “Not only will I return in one piece, once I get that varmint, I’ll be randier than a kennel full of hounds in heat! I’ll be a wild stallion for you!”
She laughed, and gave him a swat on the posterior. “Oh, behave yourself!”
The domestic gladiatorial games were interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls. They turned to see Carter Mulligan enter the room. He wore a blacksuit, with matching watch cap, skintight gloves, and boots. He had also applied black cosmetics on his face.
He was an intimidating presence, standing a full head and shoulders above his boss, who was just shy of six and a half feet himself. Carter’s height gave him a deceptive appearance of ranginess. The truth was, he weighed two seventy-five of solid slab-like muscle.
He had always been a big boy, but it was the Marines that had put him in fighting trim. He served two tours in Vietnam as a Marine sniper, which left him with a taste for the Remington 700R4 rifle.
The only negative effects he had suffered from service to his country was it had made an already reticent young man even more quiet and indrawn. When he did speak in mixed company, it was either to espouse radical politics, or tell hair-raising tales of atrocities.
The truth was he was only a tepid conservative in politics, and had neither witnessed nor participated in any alleged American atrocities, though he’d seen the South Vietnamese do some eyebrow-raising stuff.
When he’d come home, he had been spit upon, and called a baby-killer. Nobody wanted to hear his tales of heroism, and what the Americans had done to help their erstwhile allies. They had a fixed template in their mind.
So he would spit on them by giving them what he thought they wanted. His silence and his stare could be quite intimidating, which was why Rebecca didn’t like him.
Erik took a couple steps backward, and gave him an appraising stare, hands on his hips. “You look ready for a war.”
The only response he got was a small grin, and an arched eyebrow. The other man had a Remington 700R4 slung over his shoulder by the lanyard, tonight sporting a Starlite scope.
In his hand was the other rifle, an old and well-worn Marlin lever action. It had been bought as a varmint rifle, and had been used for that purpose a few times. However, most of its service had been shooting at cans, rocks, or anything else that could be made to answer for the purpose of a target.
He took the proffered weapon. “Thanks. I presume you want to go now.”
Carter just nodded. After grabbing his lunch pail, and collecting a good-bye kiss from the wife, the two of them set out for the truck. Neither one said anything for several minutes.
When it became clear his farmhand wasn’t going to initiate conversation, Erik took it upon himself to do so. “What was the big rush to get out the door?”
Carter shrugged. “Wife doesn’t like me.”
He felt a smirk rising to his lips, an eyebrow arching. “Gee, I wonder why?”
The other man shrugged. “Her prerogative.”
Erik was chagrined. That was the other man’s final word on the subject, and he hadn’t even gotten half a dozen words out of the other man.
He was silent for a long minute, considering his next conversation gambit. At last he managed, “You think the president will get re-elected?”
The other man snorted. “Not likely.”
Erik rolled his shoulders. “You think the country is ready for a B-movie actor for president?”
Carter shrugged. “Can’t do any worse.”
Erik’s shoulders squared. “President Carter’s ahead in the polls.”
The other man’s eyes were heavy-lidded. “It’s early.”
Erik was inclined to agree, and he would have voted for a rutabaga before the incumbent president. Still, he was feeling ornery, and egged on by his partner’s laconic response.
“Are you sure? After all, Ronny’s just a genial B-movie actor with movies like ‘Bedtime for Bonzo’ to his credit.”
The taller man regarded his employer from hooded eyes. “He was the governor of California. Twice.”
He had to concede the point. That was an impressive accomplishment. He parked the truck, and got out. “We ought to have a plan of attack.”
Carter pointed to a rise. “I’d suggest you wait up there, and maintain a watch. I’ll take the point, and act as a rover, beating the bushes.”
They talked it over, with his subordinate opening up, and becoming quite loquacious. In the end, they decided to go with Carter’s plan, as having the greatest likelihood of success.
Erik took his perch on the brow of the hill, while his hired hand melted into the darkness. The minutes slid by, piling up to an hour, then two. The grains of time slid through the hourglass with an aching slowness.
He was beginning to get bored with the entire exercise, and was beginning to suspect that whomever his mysterious cattle killing visitor was, he or it wasn’t coming tonight.
He got occasional reports from his hired hand in a series of sounds that sounded like birdcalls. He shook his head. The man had a remarkable gift for mimicry.
He was husbanding coffee from the thermos, and snacking on the things his wife had packed him. If something didn’t happen soon, he was going to fall asleep.
He felt the heavy hand of Lethe resting hard upon him, making his eyelids feel weighted. He was beginning to waver back and forth, ready to give into the siren song of unconsciousness.
Just then, a scream pierced the night, cutting through the mental fog that was trying to pull him down. That was followed by a shot, and a second, and a growl. Erik put the scope to his eye, and peered through it.
Carter was lying prone on the ground, his rifle still in his hand. Bounding away from him was a white blob. He only saw a flash of it, and was unable to credit what he saw.
Still, it looked like the hindquarters of a wolf. It couldn’t be, though. That thing looked bigger than a Great Dane.
A quick check of his hired hand satisfied him the other man had not been hurt bad. Then he lowered his rifle, trying to see the thing he had only caught a glimpse of.
At first, he was only able to make out shadows, and hints of movement. As his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out his cows. They were starting to stand up, and wander around, lowing.
It was clear they were getting agitated. If something wasn’t done soon, they might start stampeding, which would mean some of them would get hurt. The question was, what was getting them so upset, and what could he do to stop them?
He saw something moving in the direction he had been looking in. He saw what looked like an Irish wolfhound charging toward the knot of agitated cattle. It was even making doglike sounds, but he knew it wasn’t an Irish wolfhound.
It looked gray rather than red, and as it got closer and closer, he realized it was too big anyways. Nor was it really gray. It was white, and it was huge! The thing was huge enough to be an albino bull, but the face was too long and lupine.
With a cold chill down his spine, he realized what it was. It was a huge albino wolf. No, that wasn’t quite right either.
The eye had a swirling reddish-orange glow, instead of the pink eye of an albino. It also radiated menace and evil, like an aura around it.
That thing may look like a wolf, but it was just a mask, hiding a deeper malevolence. The word deadlights ran through his head like a rampaging steer.
He was panting for breath, adrenaline galloping through his body. If his sphincter hadn’t clamped closed, he would have peed himself by now. It was now fight or flight.
He brought up the Marlin, without pausing to peer through the scope. At this range, he wasn’t likely to need it. He stood up and began shooting, jacking the lever to clear another cartridge. He kept going until the magazine was empty. Then he looked to see what he had accomplished.
The wolf-thing was standing there, ichor oozing from several points in its side. By all rights, it should be lying there dead. Instead, to his astonishment, they wounds began sucking themselves closed. The ichorous blood began melting back into his pelt.
The wolf-thing turned to regard him with a lupine look that was meant to convey contempt. With a bound, it took a cow. She let out a bleat of pain and terror as the wolf’s jaws closed around her neck.
The other cows stamped their hooves, and lowed in agitation. He shook her, serrating the flesh, and causing her to bleed out. Once she was dead, the wolf-thing began to feed. It did so in a liesurly fashion, as if in contempt for the puny humans that sought to constrain him.
The other cows began to settle down, sinking back down in their bovine torpor as they began to chew their cud. They behaved as if they were unaware that one of their own had just met her violent end at the hands of a predator.
Erik was at a complete loss. How was he supposed to deal with something like that? Just then, Carter appeared at his side. “Did you just see that?”
The other man nodded. “How do you deal with something like that?”
Carter was silent for a long moment, stroking his chin. At last, he said, “Two words, sir. Stuart McCarter.”
He whistled as he worked on getting the little stuffed bird posed on the branch. It had taken time to find a second career once the trade in wolf pelts had dried up.
His first thought was to become a mortician. When he’d confided the idea to a friend though, the man had gone paper white, and suggested trying to find a different career path. It was then that he first heard about his fearsome reputation.
His first reaction was to be indignant. Where did those other people get off telling him what he could and couldn’t do? Then he found himself enjoying a dark chuckle over it. People could go limp-wristed over the strangest things.
It wasn’t like he had fallen into the job, either. He’d had to wash cars, wash dishes, and fold laundry, or a dozen other menial jobs he had done to put himself through school. Then he’d moonlighted as a janitor, and delivered the morning paper to keep himself afloat while he’d opened his own taxidermy shop.
It had been hand-to-mouth for several years, and he had often napped during business hours, because he had so little time to sleep. Business had picked up, and he was able to devote his full time to his new passion.
It wasn’t like he was raking it in hand-over fist, and he got a lot of strange looks from the local busybodies. Still, he was making a living, and staying out of trouble.
He saw himself as a craftsman. He was good at what he did, and there was a certain pride in a job well done. Still, there were times in the dark of the night that he was left to wonder.
There was a certain part of the population that thought him ghoulish. He never offered them a second thought. They had already made their minds up, and wouldn’t be dissuaded by anything.
Then there were the environmentalists and animal-rights types, who were demonstrating an increasing militancy. They had made their feelings known in acts ranging from picketing his house, to throwing stones.
His Model 70 had remained on the wall, where he had put it after retiring as a wolf hunter. After stalking the wily wolf, turning his skills to lesser game left him cold.
He’d bought a BB rifle for shooting birds, and plinking varmints that sought to invade his property.
He’d threatened to pull the old Winchester down after an extra-violent protest. That had been enough to cow them into submission, and it had been a while since he had heard a peep from them.
Of course, he could sense the rising tide of resentment against them, and knew that a stormburst was on the horizon. That was likely to lead to violence.
That thought keyed up an old fantasy that had been lurking in the back of his mind. Ever since making the threat, there had been the desire to skin and stuff one that he had shot.
Even worse, he would think about shooting one of the women, and he would get a hard-on. What was that about? He thought they were scruffier and dirtier then the men.
It was true the last few times he had sought out female companionship, he suffered the humiliation of being unable to perform on command. The woman had been polite about it, but it was clear he had suffered a diminution of his manhood in her eyes.
He had tried dismissing the links that arose in his mind between his setting fires on the stove by dropping coffee filters onto a hot burner, and his increasing habit of catching wild animals, and skinning them alive before stuffing them.
The reason for the latter was a vestige of the hunting instinct. Nothing more than that. He might own that he was a little obsessed with fire, but it was like wanting to hunt and stuff one of the protesters.
He had been living as a semi-hermit for several years. Was it any wonder he had strange ideas? Nothing sinister about such a confluence of things. Still, he was unable to shake the feeling of something dark and ugly moving under the surface.
The bell over his door tinkled. He turned away, grateful for the respite from his dark reflections. He was surprised to see Carter Mulligan at the door. “So, what brings you to these parts?”
The other man stared at him. “Erik and I have seen the white wolf.” He let that hang in the air a moment. “You need to take care of it.”
Stuart’s hands shot up, before coming down with a thump. “What? You must be kidding! I gave that upÉ”
The stone-faced look from the other man cut off his protest. His eyes bored into Stuart. “It’s immune to our rifles. It wants you.”
His palms began to sweat. Whenever he was asked if he had even the slightest regrets about the wolf killings, he always answered with a brusque no. That was a lie though.
It went beyond the dark iceberg of his personality that lurked just below the surface. When he had been hunting, he had slept the sleep of the just. It was after he had hung up his rifle that the nightmares had begun.
He struggled to remember what it was that haunted the twisted nightmarescape his bed had become, but he knew the thing had been stalking him for fifteen years. Something big, rough, and breathing fire and revenge.
The matter only got worse after the sightings of the white wolf began. An icy hand gripped his heart as the door between the dream and waking worlds opened, and the monster stepped forward, to confront him.
In that moment, he knew he would have to confront the beast. It would give him no peace, and it would keep killing livestock to keep the pressure up.
He nodded. “Yes.” There was no point in fighting it. His nostrils flared, and his eyes took on the thousand-yard stare.
Inside, he felt his blood heating up at the prospect of a confrontation. It was clear that this was no ordinary wolf, but a terrible vision of vengeance, bent on his destruction.
Well, it went against the grain for him to leave a challenge unanswered. He repeated to himself, “Yes.” Then he added, “And I’ll have its pelt to lay on by the fireside.”
He was shocked by the brashness of his words when they came out of his mouth. However, they packed a surge of confidence in their train.
He was the master hunter, and whether it was flesh and blood, or something not of this world, it was going to die. His fury was at least a match for this rough beast.
The dark part of his personality that had been submerged began to break free of its restraints, and was starting to surface. He felt godlike, and more alive than he ever remembered feeling in his life.
A diabolical grin lit up his face. The other man nodded, and started backing away.
That evening, he found himself occupying the same hillock Erik Mansfield had occupied the previous night. He was unable to explain why he had chosen it. All he could say with unshakable certitude was this was where his nemesis would come.
In addition to his old Model 70 he had brought out of retirement, he had brought an iron mallet, a double-bladed axe, and three knives. It was clear that this beast was going to require a lot of killing, and this was going to become a hand-to-hand engagement.
This wolf wasn’t going to go quietly into the good night, and that was just fine with him. His blood was afire with the idea that this was going to be a grudge match for all of the marbles.
He had suffered for fifteen years at the hands of this fiend, from the hunter to the hunted. Tonight, the matter would be settled, and he would destroy the thing that made him afraid for the first time in his life.
The cows had been cleared from the pasture, but it was an unnecessary precaution. The only other thing alive was a staked lamb at the foot of the hill. It cropped the grass, pausing on occasion to look around. It was bait. A final meal, as it were.
The lamb began to get agitated, tramping its hooves as it looked around. That was a sure sign his nemesis was about. Then he saw a ghostlike shape heading toward him.
There was no attempt at stealth or misdirection. The beast was heading toward him like a furred guided missile. He brought up his scoped rifle, and let out a gasp.
The wolf’s eyes glowed with a reddish-orange glow. The word deadlights ricocheted around in his head.
In that moment, he realized his confidence was misplaced, and he was way out of his league. It also brought home to him that the beast was just an echo of him.
The puzzle pieces fell into a distinct pattern, and he didn’t like the picture that emerged. If he somehow survived, he would become a menace to society. He had thrown off the last restraints of his psychopathic personality, and the beast within him was loose.
Still, he wasn’t ready to just lay down, and accept his fate. As long as the breath of life remained in him, he was going to fight.
His lips peeled back in a snarl as he tried bullying his recalcitrant body into doing what he wanted it to. His fingers felt dumb and wooden on the trigger, but they were obedient to his will, even if they did it in slow motion.
He set the crosshairs between the eyes, and moved it up a fraction. Then he felt the rifle buck against his shoulder as the trigger broke.
The next morning, Erik and Carter hurried out in the truck, to see if Stuart had indeed brought down the white wolf, as he had promised.
They had not eaten breakfast, which had upset Rachel to no end. She became even more put out when they promised to bring the other min in for breakfast.
There was nothing she could have done though. As the old saying went, they were like a pair of long tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. At last, she chased them out, so she could have a little piece of mind.
The truck pulled up behind the hillock, and both men bailed out. Then Erik went back to shut it off, and collect the keys. With everything else, it wouldn’t do to have to explain to the wife why the truck had been stolen.
They could see him sitting cross-legged on the top of the hillock. The Model 70 lay in his lap. Carter was the first around. His eyes widened. “Hey boss! You must see this!”
The sheep became skittish upon seeing him, retreating to the end of the tether. Then it returned its attention to grazing.
Erik’s eyes also widened when he saw Stuart’s body. The throat had been ripped out, almost decapitating him. He had also been torn open with teeth and claws, and had been disemboweled.
Despite all the signs of violence, it didn’t look like his attacker had eaten any of him. The front of the body was covered in white fur, and the face was stretched out in a look of unimaginable horror.
Even though he was a Baptist, Carter crossed himself. Erik did likewise, and murmured, “Poor devil, looks like he didn’t have time to put up much of a fight before the thing savaged him.”
Carter shook his head. “What kind of animal would do such a thing?”
The lamb looked up, and as if to answer the question, it said, “Baaaa.”
The funeral was held three days later. The only ones in attendance were half-dozen ranchers who had benefited from his services. All of them looked uncomfortable, fidgeting in the pews.
He did not leave a will behind, and there was all kinds of speculation about what the probate courts might decide. Somebody ended up torching the cabin before the week was out, which resulted in all his worldly goods being burnt up. That was considered to be the end of the matter. After his death, the white wolf was never seen again.
