THE OLD LOBO WOLF

Jamie took a sip of his whiskey and carefully placed the glass on the scarred bar. “Good whiskey,” he told the bartender. “Hits the spot. But it stinks in here,” he added. “Smells like outlaw scum to me.”

Tom Brewer stood up from the table. “Old man,” he said to Jamie’s back. “You been doggin’ my back trail for more’un two years now. And I’m tired of it. You’ve killed my friends and even some of my kin. But your killin’ stops right here.”

Jamie turned to face him, his short-barreled twelve guage shotgun pressed tight against his leg. “I don’t think so, Brewer,” he said. “I still got a goodly number of you trash to deal with.”

Outside the winter winds screamed like angry eagles. “Make your peace with whatever God will claim you, Brewer,” Jamie said. “Then hook and draw.”

Brewer cursed Jamie and grabbed iron. Jamie lifted the sawed-off and blew the killer all over the back end of the saloon. Then he drained his glass of whiskey and walked out.

“Who in the hell was that?” a salesman from St. Louis blurted.

“That’s an ol’ lobo wolf name of Jamie Ian MacCallister.” The grizzled trapper spoke from the corner table. “The Miles Nelson gang kilt his wife down in Coloradee two year ago. He’s been on the prod ever since. And he’ll be on the prod ’til he kills ever’ one of them.”

“You reckon he’ll get it done?” the bartender asked.

The old mountain man smiled. “Bet on it.”