SPERNIG’S ROADHOUSE SAT in a horseshoe of the Little Missouri River, along a well-traveled freight road snaking across the broken prairie between Mandan and Glendive, Montana.
The roadhouse sat in a hollow between low buttes. Doubling as a dance hall, it was a long, barnlike building constructed of milled lumber and boasting a redbrick chimney poking through its shingled roof. A corral flanked the building on the left, and a long hitch rack paralleled its front porch.
In spite of the cold weather, or because of it, Spernig’s was hopping tonight. The corral was nearly filled with saddled horses, and two spring wagons and a buckboard were tied to the hitch rack. Dull yellow light spilled from the windows, and the sound of laughter, shuffling feet, and broken piano music penetrated the still, cold night.
Inside, Gordon Jenkins sat a table nearest the piano. His big hand was wrapped around the handle of a soapy beer mug and his attention was glued to the woman playing the piano—or trying to play, as the others saw it. No one but Gordon could understand why the woman had been hired, for she could play no better than a gifted cowhand, and her half-assed renditions of “Little Brown Jug” and “The Flying Trapeze” were raucous at best.
But night after night, Gordon listened and watched as
though he were being personally serenaded by harp-wielding cherubs. And tonight was no different.
Now as the woman finished a ponderous “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” letting the final notes fade with a dramatic flair, lifting her pudgy nose to the rafters, Gordon rose to his feet. He brought his sun-darkened paws together slowly at first, issuing reports like those from a heavy Sharps rifle, then more quickly as he gained momentum. The woman turned her round face to him and smiled.
Gordon returned the smile with a wet-eyed one of his own, then turned his head to glance about the room. The other men and Spernig’s two soiled doves were not clapping. They weren’t even looking the piano player’s way.
Gordon’s expression turned so dark that the others seemed to sense its heat before they saw it. Gradually, one pair of hands at a time, the room filled with applause. One of the soiled doves even removed the cigar from her mouth and gave an obligatory whistle before going back to her card game.
It was enough to satisfy Gordon, who smiled broadly and held up his beer as the lady at the piano beamed and flushed, dropping her eyes demurely.
As the applause died and everyone returned to their jokes and their card games, Gordon pulled a chair out from his table, and the woman made her way to it. She was dressed in a shiny green gown with puffed sleeves and feathered felt hat. Gordon loved the way her full bosom bubbled up out of her corset like giant scoops of vanilla ice cream.
“That was some fine playin’, Doreen, some mighty fine playin’. Yessirree, doggie—can you play that thing!”
“Well, thank you, Gordon.”
“No—thank you, Doreen. You know, after listenin’ to you of a night, I’ll hear one of those tunes all the next day while I’m goin’ about my chores—just like you was playin’ a little piano inside my head.”
Doreen Sanderson laughed gaily, red lips parting and blue eyes flashing. Gordon didn’t know how old she was—he guessed she was somewhere around forty-five or fifty—but he thought her the best-looking thing for the years as you’d find in Dakota in the wintertime, and her a widow with full-grown children to boot!
“Really?” she said, beaming.
“Would I lie to you?”
“Well, no, I guess you probably wouldn’t, Gordon.”
“Here, have a seat. I’ll order you a drink.”
She frowned and pursed her lips, hesitating. “Oh, Gordon—you know, I’m awfully tired, and Mr. Norton wants me to start inventory early in the morning, before the doors open.” She only moonlighted as a piano player, working full-time as a clerk and bookkeeper in Big Draw. “I’m awfully sorry, but I think I’m going to head back to town.”
Gordon’s face fell. “So early?”
She smiled painfully and touched his hand. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I’ll drive the buggy around.”
“Oh, you don’t need to see me home. It’s early yet. You stay and have fun.”
Gordon shook his head, reaching for his coat, which he’d thrown over a chair. “Wouldn’t think of it. It’s a dark, cold night out there. It’d take a pretty small man to send a lady off alone.”
“Oh, Gordon …”
He gave her a look of mock severity. “Now, Doreen, don’t argue with me. You get bundled up while I go out and get the buggy.”
Five minutes later, Gordon pulled the Deere & Weber Company two-seater around the front of the roadhouse, and tied his roan gelding on behind. Doreen stepped through the door in a wash of yellow light and a wave of laughter.
She wore a long wool coat, fur hat, and fur gloves. She
clutched a round box, in which she’d placed her feathered hat for the journey home.
“Easy now, these steps are slippery,” Gordon said as he mounted the porch and began guiding her down.
“Oh, Gordon, how you do dote on me!”
“Well, some women just call for dotin’.”
“If only my dear dead Charlie could hear that!” she said with a throaty laugh.
When they were situated in the buggy and Gordon had thrown a buffalo robe over Doreen’s legs, he flicked the reins against the harnessed sorrel’s back, and they moved off down the trail leading south along the frozen river. Buttes lofted on their right, white with snow in the frosty darkness. The riverbed pushed up on the left side of the trail, thick with brush and dotted here and there with isolated willows and box elders.
Owls cooed and small night critters moved in the brush—raccoons, no doubt. Occasional wolves howled. When one such howl rose so loudly from a nearby knoll that Doreen’s eardrums rattled, she slid close to Gordon and gave a shiver.
“Oh, I just hate it when they do that!”
“They do tend to get brave out here,” Gordon allowed. “But don’t you worry none. I’ve lived in the Territory for fifty years, and I’ve never once heard of a wolf attacking people. Besides, I’ve got this here”—he lifted the carbine he’d stood between his left knee and the buggy’s fender—“and a Winchester Sixty-six is about as good a luck charm as you’ll find.” He grinned.
She squeezed his arm. “Mr. Jenkins, you certainly know how to make a woman feel secure.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Sanderson.”
They were riding around a bend when another howl rended the quiet night. Gordon jumped this time, as well as Doreen, who cried, “Oh!” The harnessed sorrel started, ruffling
its mane, and Gordon could feel the resistance when his own horse, tied behind, paused briefly to snort and look around.
“It’s okay, Earl,” he told the horse. “Keep on, now.”
“Such a noise,” Doreen said, huddled close to Gordon. “I’ve never heard one that close. He must be stalking us!”
“They don’t stalk people,” Gordon said.
“Well, apparently this one hasn’t been told that.”
The wolf howled again. The bewitching noise lifted from somewhere ahead, just beyond their range of vision. Gordon let the sorrel come to a halt, then draped the reins across his knee and picked up his Winchester. He stared ahead, squinting, trying to pick the critter out of the darkness. Behind him, his horse whinnied and shook its head, jarring the buggy.
“Come on, you,” he growled. “Show yourself.”
Doreen squeezed his arm. “Let’s turn around, Gordon. I got a funny feelin’ about this.”
“It’s just a wolf,” Gordon said, but his voice was tense.
“Just a wolf!” Doreen cried.
“He’s just tryin’ to scare us,” Gordon said. “He’s out havin’ fun.”
“Maybe he’s after the horses.”
“Well, he ain’t gonna get ’em.” He tossed the reins. “Giddyup, horse.”
They continued on for another mile and were beginning to feel less fearful, starting to chat again, when the wolf howled again—this time from behind them. It sounded as though the animal were only a few feet away. Gordon’s horse plunged forward and around the buggy, jerking its right wheels several inches off the ground.
Doreen screamed as she bounced from side to side, flailing for Gordon’s arm. Gordon yelled, “Hey, hey, horse! Whoah! Whoah! … Eeeeasy.”
Then it was over and the sorrel was pulling the buggy
again, shaking its head from side to side, agitated, and Gordon’s horse was following along behind—tensely snorting and jerking its head around to see behind it.
“Gordon, please, let’s go back!” Doreen yelled.
“Hell, the goddamn thing is behind us now!”
“Oh, Gordon … I’m scared!”
“Don’t be scared. I’ll get you home.” He pulled back on the reins, slowing the sorrel to a halt. “But first I better loosen the lead so old Earl can’t topple us.”
Doreen grabbed his arm as he prepared to leave the buggy. “Gordon, don’t leave me!”
“Just for a second, Doreen. I’ve got to loosen that lead.”
“Oh, Gordon, hurry. I have such a bad feeling …” She turned to stare ahead, her eyes wide and brimming with animal fear. “There’s something awful out there.”
Gordon wanted to assure her that it wasn’t something so awful, but he wasn’t sure himself anymore. He, too, had a bad feeling. About as bad a feeling as he’d ever had—and he’d ridden herd through Blackfeet country!
He handed the reins to Doreen. “Hold on to these real tight now. Don’t let go.”
“Just hurry, please, Gordon.”
He crawled down from the buggy and patted his horse to settle him, then went to work untying the lead. He tried to hurry, but the horse’s commotion had twisted the leather into one hell of a tight knot. He cursed as he tried to work it apart with his bare, cold hands, nearly prying his fingernails off. The cold air burned and ached in his fingertips.
“Holy shit in a sandstorm,” he muttered.
“Gordon,” Doreen said quietly. Too quietly.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Someone’s coming.”
“Huh?”
She did not reply. Gordon followed her gaze around behind
him. Sure enough, a rider was approaching. Gordon could make out only a silhouette, but that was enough to make his heart lighten. It was probably one of the men from the roadhouse heading home. He’d ride with Gordon and Doreen, and they’d be all right. There was safety in numbers.
“Hello, there,” Gordon called, holding his horse by the bridle.
The rider came on but said nothing.
“Gordon,” Doreen said thinly.
Gordon ignored her. “We sure are glad to see you,” he said, grinning, staring off down the trail. The horse and rider took shape as they approached.
“The lady got a little scared,” Gordon said. “We’ve been hearing wolves.”
Doreen gave a breathy, frightened sound that seemed to crawl up slowly from deep in her chest. “G-Gordon.”
Gordon turned to her, frowning. “What is it?”
“He … he’s got a gun.”
Gordon turned back to the rider again. Sure enough, the man was holding a rifle out from his belly. The barrel was pointed at Gordon’s head. It was a big gun, bigger than most of the guns used around here for ranchwork. It looked like a hide hunter’s Big Fifty.
Gordon regarded the man’s gray-black coat and dark, featureless face, from which a cigar glowed beneath the round brim of a black hat with a brown leather band. He did not recognize the man. His fear returned, stronger. His tongue swelled and his heart began to pound. Cold as he was, sweat popped out on his back. He caught the smell of the man’s cigar.
He stood there frozen, smile fading, holding his horse’s bridle.
“Gordon,” Doreen cried softly.
“Who … who are you?” Gordon said.
The man halted his horse about ten feet in front of him. The horse tossed its head. The man steadied it with an iron grip on the reins. Smoke puffed from around the cigar protruding from his dark face.
Gordon wanted to reach for the pistol on his right hip, but his right hand held fast to the bridle.
“Oh, Gordon,” Doreen cried again, in a high voice broken by sobs. “I knew it … I knew it … was something … awful.”
Gordon watched as the man lifted his left hand to his face and removed the cigar. Then the man slowly tipped back his head and howled. There was nothing at all human in the howl. It was not a man’s howl.
It was a wolf’s howl.
It lifted to the sky and set the night alive with its evil …
And it was the last sound Gordon Jenkins ever heard.