Time of the Wolves Read online

  Alma undid the fastenings of her heavy cloak and sat down, puzzled by the strange reception. Sarah went to the stove and added a log, in spite of the room already being quite warm.

  “He sent you to spy on me, didn’t he?”

  The words caught Alma by complete surprise. She stared at Sarah’s narrow back, unable to make a reply.

  Sarah turned, her sharp features pinched by what might have been anger. “That is why you’re here, is it not?” she asked.

  “Mister Carstairs did ask us to look out for you in his absence, yes.”

  “How like him,” Sarah said bitterly.

  Alma could think of nothing to say to that.

  Sarah offered her coffee. As she prepared it, Alma studied the young woman. In spite of the heat in the room and her proximity to the stove, she rubbed her hands together; her shawl slipped off her thin shoulders, and she quickly pulled it back. When the coffee was ready—a bitter, nearly unpalatable brew—she sat cradling the cup in her hands, as if to draw even more warmth from it.

  After her earlier strangeness Sarah seemed determined to talk about the commonplace: the storm that was surely due, the difficulty of obtaining proper cloth, her hope that William would not forget the bolt of calico she had requested he bring. She asked Alma about making soap. Had she ever done so? Would she allow her to help the next time so she might learn? As they spoke, she began to wipe beads of moisture from her brow. The room remained very warm; Alma removed her cloak and draped it over the back of the rocker.

  Outside, the wind was rising, and the light that came through the narrow windows was tinged with gray. Alma became impatient to be off for home before the storm arrived, but she also became concerned with leaving Sarah alone. The young woman’s conversation was rapidly growing erratic and rambling; she broke off in the middle of sentences to laugh irrelevantly. Her brow continued moist, and she threw off her shawl, fanning herself. Alma, who like all frontier women had had considerable experience at doctoring the sick, realized Sarah had been taken by a fever.

  Her first thought was to take Sarah to her own home, where she might look after her properly, but one glance out the window discouraged her. The storm was nearing quickly now; the wind gusted, tearing at the dried cornstalks in William Carstairs’s uncleared fields, and the sky was streaked with black and purple. A ride of several miles in such weather would be the death of Sarah, do Alma no good, either. She was here for the duration, with only a sick woman to help her make the place secure.

  She glanced at Sarah, but the other woman seemed unaware of what was going on outside. Alma said: “You’re feeling poorly, aren’t you?”

  Sarah shook her head vehemently. A strand of dark brown hair fell across her forehead and clung there damply. Alma sensed she was not a woman who would give in easily to illness, would fight any suggestion that she take to her bed until she was near collapse. She thought over the remedies she had administered to others in such a condition, wondered whether Sarah’s supplies included the necessary sassafras tea or quinine.

  Sarah was rambling again—about the prairie, its loneliness and desolation. “. . . listen to that wind! It’s with us every moment. I hate the wind and the cold, I hate the nights when the wolves prowl. . . .”

  A stealthy touch of cold moved along Alma’s spine. She, too, feared the wolves and coyotes. John told her it came from having Germanic blood. Their older relatives had often spoken in hushed tones of the wolf packs in the Black Forest. Many of their native fairy tales and legends concerned the cruel cunning of the animals, but John was always quick to point out that these were only stories. “Wolves will not attack a human unless they sense sickness or weakness,” he often asserted. “You need only take caution.”

  But all of the settlers, John included, took great precautions against the roaming wolf packs; no one went out onto the prairie unarmed. And the stories of merciless and unprovoked attacks could not all be unfounded. . . .

  “I hear wolves at night,” Sarah said. “They scratch on the door and the sod. They’re hungry. Oh, yes, they’re hungry.”

  Alma suddenly got to her feet, unable to sit for the tautness in her limbs. She felt Sarah’s eyes on her as she went to the sideboard and lit the oil lamp. When she turned to Sarah again, the young woman had tilted her head against the high back of the rocker and was viewing her through slitted lids. There was a glitter in the dark crescents that remained visible that struck Alma as somehow malicious.

  “Are you afraid of the wolves, Alma?” she asked slyly.

  “Anyone with good sense is.”

  “And you in particular?”

  “Of course, I’d be afraid if I met one face-to-face!”

  “Only if you were face-to-face with it? Then you won’t be afraid staying here with me when they scratch at the door. I tell you, I hear them every night. Their claws go snick, snick on the boards. . . .”

  The words were baiting. Alma felt her dislike for Sarah Carstairs gather strength. She said calmly: “Then you’ve noticed the storm is fast approaching.”

  Sarah extended a limp arm toward the window. “Look at the snow.”

  Alma glanced over there, saw the first flakes drifting past the wavery pane of glass. The sense of foreboding she’d felt upon her arrival intensified, sending little prickles over the surface of her skin.

  Firmly she reined in her fear and met Sarah’s eyes with a steady gaze. “You’re right . . . I must stay here. I’ll be as little trouble to you as possible.”

  “Why should you be trouble? I’ll be glad of your company.” Her tone mocked the meaning of the words. “We can talk. It’s a long time since I’ve had anyone to talk to. We’ll talk of my William.”

  Alma glanced at the window again, anxious to put her horse into the barn, out of the snow. She thought of the revolver she carried in her saddlebag as defense against the dangers of the prairie; she would feel safer if she brought it inside with her.

  “We’ll talk of my William,” Sarah repeated. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Alma?”

  “Of course. But first I must tend to my horse.”

  “Yes, of course, you’d like talking of William. You like talking to him. All those times when he stops at your place on his way home to me. On his way home, when your John isn’t there. Oh, yes, Alma, I know about those visits.” Sarah’s eyes were wide now, the malicious light shining brightly.

  Alma caught her breath. She opened her mouth to contradict the words, then shut it. It was the fever talking, she told herself, exaggerating the fears and delusions that life on the frontier could sometimes foster. There was no sense trying to reason with Sarah. What mattered now was to put the horse up and fetch her weapon. She said briskly—“We’ll discuss this when I’ve returned.”—donned her cloak, and stepped out into the storm.

  The snow was sheeting along on a northwesterly gale. The flakes were small and hard; they stung her face like hailstones. The wind made it difficult to walk; she leaned into it, moving slowly toward the hazy outline of her sorrel. He stood by the rail, his hoofs moving skittishly. Alma grasped his halter, clung to it a moment before she began leading him toward the ramshackle barn. The chickens had long ago fled to their coop. Sarah’s bony bay was nowhere in sight.

  The doors to the barn stood open, the interior in darkness. Alma led the sorrel inside and waited until her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. When they had, she spied a lantern hanging next to the door, matches and flint nearby. She fumbled with them, got the lantern lit, and looked around.

  Sarah’s bay stood in one of the stalls, apparently accustomed to looking out for itself. The stall was dirty, and the entire barn held an air of neglect. She set the lantern down, unsaddled the sorrel, and fed and watered both horses. As she turned to leave, she saw the dull gleam of an axe lying on top of a pile of wood. Without considering why she was doing so, she picked it up and carried it, along with her gun, outside. The barn doors were warped and difficult to secure, but with some effort she managed.
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br />   Back in the house, she found Sarah’s rocker empty. She set down the axe and the gun, calling out in alarm. A moan came from beyond the rough burlap that curtained off the next room. Alma went over and pushed aside the cloth.

  Sarah lay on a brass bed, her hair fanned out on the pillows. She had crawled under the tumbled quilts and blankets. Alma approached and put a hand to her forehead; it was hot, but Sarah was shivering.

  Sarah moaned again. Her eyes opened and focused unsteadily on Alma. “Cold,” she said. “So cold. . . .”

  “You’ve taken a fever.” Alma spoke briskly, a manner she’d found effective with sick people. “Did you remove your shoes before getting into bed?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Good. It’s best you keep your clothes on, though . . . this storm is going to be a bad one . . . you’ll need them for warmth.”

  Sarah rolled onto her side and drew herself into a ball, shivering violently. She mumbled something, but her words were muffled.

  Alma leaned closer. “What did you say?”

  “The wolves . . . they’ll come tonight, scratching. . . .”

  “No wolves are going to come here in this storm. Anyway, I’ve a gun and the axe from your woodpile. No harm will come to us. Try to rest now, perhaps sleep. When you wake, I’ll bring some tea that will help break the fever.”

  Alma went toward the door, then turned to look back at the sick woman. Sarah was curled on her side, but she had moved her head and was watching her. Her eyes were slitted once more, and the light from the lamp in the next room gleamed off them—hard and cold as the icicles that must be forming on the eaves.

  Alma was seized by an unreasoning chill. She moved through the door, out into the lamplight, toward the stove’s warmth. As she busied herself with finding things in the cabinet, she felt a violent tug of home.

  Ridiculous to fret, she told herself. John and Margaret would be fine. They would worry about her, of course, but would know she had arrived here well in advance of the storm. And they would also credit her with the good sense not to start back home on such a night.

  She rummaged through the shelves and drawers, found the herbs and tea and some roots that would make a healing brew. Outside, there was a momentary quieting of the wind; in the bedroom Sarah, also, lay quiet. Alma put on the kettle and sat down to wait for it to boil.

  It was then that she heard the first wolf howls, not far away on the prairie.

  “The bravery of the pioneer women has never been equaled,” Mrs. Clark told the historian. “And there was a solidarity, a sisterhood among them that you don’t see any more. That sisterhood was what sustained my grandmother and Sarah Carstairs as they battled the wolves. . . .”

  For hours the wolves howled in the distance. Sarah awoke, throwing off the covers, complaining of the heat. Alma dosed her repeatedly with the herbal brew and waited for the fever to break. Sarah tossed about on the bed, raving about wolves and the wind and William. She seemed to have some fevered notion that her husband had deserted her, and nothing Alma would say would calm her. Finally she wore herself out and slipped into a troubled sleep.

  Alma prepared herself some tea and pulled one of the rockers close to the stove. She was bone-tired, and the cold was bitter now, invading the little house through every crack and pore in the sod. Briefly she thought she should bring Sarah into the main room, prepare a pallet on the floor nearer the heat source, but she decided it would do the woman more harm than good to be moved. As she sat warming herself and sipping the tea, she gradually became aware of an eerie hush and realized the wind had ceased.

  Quickly she set down her cup and went to the window. The snow had stopped, too. Like its sister storm of two days before, this one had retreated north, leaving behind a barren white landscape. The moon had appeared, near to full, and its stark light glistened off the snow.

  And against the snow moved the black silhouettes of the wolves.

  They came from the north, rangy and shaggy, more like ragged shadows than flesh and blood creatures. Their howling was silenced now, and their gait held purpose. Alma counted five of them, all of a good size yet bony. Hungry.

  She stepped back from the window and leaned against the wall beside it. Her breathing was shallow, and she felt strangely light-headed. For a moment she stood, one hand pressed to her midriff, bringing her senses under control. Then she moved across the room, to where William Carstairs’s Winchester rifle hung on the wall. When she had it in her hands, she stood looking resolutely at it.

  Of course, Alma knew how to fire a rifle; all frontier women did. But she was only a fair shot with it, a far better shot with her revolver. She could use a rifle to fire at the wolves at a distance, but the best she could hope for was to frighten them. Better to wait and see what transpired.

  She set the rifle down and turned back to the window. The wolves were still some distance away. And what if they did come to the house, scratch at the door as Sarah had claimed? The house was well built; there was little harm the wolves could do it.

  Alma went to the door to the bedroom. Sarah still slept, the covers pushed down from her shoulders. Alma went in and pulled them up again. Then she returned to the main room and the rocker.

  The first scratchings came only minutes later. Snick, snick on the boards, just as Sarah had said.

  Alma gripped the arms of the rocker with icy fingers. The revolver lay in her lap.

  The scratching went on. Snuffling noises, too. In the bedroom, Sarah cried out in protest. Alma got up and looked in on her. The sick woman was writhing on the bed. “They’re out there! I know they are!”

  Alma went to her. “Hush, they won’t hurt us.” She tried to rearrange Sarah’s covers, but she only thrashed harder.

  “They’ll break the door, they’ll find a way in, they’ll. . . .”

  Alma pressed her hand over Sarah’s mouth. “Stop it! You’ll only do yourself harm.”

  Surprisingly Sarah calmed. Alma wiped sweat from her brow and waited. The young woman continued to lie quietly.

  When Alma went back to the window, she saw that the wolves had retreated. They stood together, several yards away, as if discussing how to breech the house.

  Within minutes they returned. Their scratchings became bolder now, their claws ripped and tore at the sod. Heavy bodies thudded against the door, making the boards tremble.

  In the bedroom, Sarah cried out. This time Alma ignored her.

  The onslaught became more intense. Alma checked the load on William Carstairs’s rifle, then looked at her pistol. Five rounds left. Five rounds, five wolves. . . .

  The wolves were in a frenzy now—incited, perhaps, by the odor of sickness within the house. Alma remembered John’s words: “They will not attack a human unless they sense sickness or weakness.” There was plenty of both here.

  One of the wolves leapt at the window. The thick glass creaked but did not shatter. There were more thumps at the door; its boards groaned.

  Alma took her pistol in both hands, held it ready, moved toward the door.

  In the bedroom, Sarah cried out for William. Once again Alma ignored her.

  The coil of fear that was so often in the pit of Alma’s stomach wound taut. Strangely it gave her strength. She trained the revolver’s muzzle on the door, ready should it give.

  The attack came from a different quarter: The window shattered, glass smashing on the floor. A gray head appeared, tried to wiggle through the narrow casement. Alma smelled its foul odor, saw its fangs. She fired once . . . twice.

  The wolf dropped out of sight.

  The assault on the door ceased. Cautiously Alma moved forward. When she looked out the window, she saw the wolf lying dead on the ground—and the others renewing their attack on the door.

  Alma scrambled back as another shaggy gray head appeared in the window frame. She fired. The wolf dropped back, snarling.

  It lunged once more. Her finger squeezed the trigger. The wolf fell.

  One round left. Alma turned, m
eaning to fetch the rifle. But Sarah stood behind her.

  The sick woman wavered on her feet. Her face was coated with sweat, her hair tangled. In her hands she held the axe that Alma had brought from the woodpile.

  In the instant before Sarah raised it above her head, Alma saw her eyes. They were made wild by something more than fever. The woman was totally mad.

  Disbelief made Alma slow. It was only as the blade began its descent that she was able to move aside.

  The blade came down, whacked into the boards where she had stood.

  Her sudden motion nearly put her on the floor. She stumbled, fought to steady herself.

  From behind her came a scrambling sound. She whirled, saw a wolf wriggling halfway through the window casement.

  Sarah was struggling to lift the axe.

  Alma pivoted and put her last bullet into the wolfs head.

  Sarah had raised the axe. Alma dropped the revolver and rushed at her. She slammed into the young woman’s shoulder, sent her spinning toward the stove. The axe crashed to the floor.

  As she fell against the hot metal Sarah screamed—a sound more terrifying than the howls of the wolves.

  “My grandmother was made of stronger cloth than Sarah Carstairs,” Mrs. Clark said. “The wolf attack did irreparable damage to poor Sarah’s mind. She was never the same again.”

  Alma was never sure what had driven the two remaining wolves off—whether it was the death of the others or the terrible keening of the sick and injured woman in the sod house. She was never clear on how she managed to do what needed to be done for Sarah, nor how she got through the remainder of that terrible night. But in the morning when John arrived—so afraid for her safety that he had left Margaret at home and braved the drifted snow alone—Sarah was bandaged and put to bed. The fever had broken, and they were able to transport her to their own home after securing the battered house against the elements.