Gray Wolf Pass

By Robert Reynolds

This Old West saga meets the Upper Midwest in a tragic tale of betrayal, stolen loot. Meaning to set things right, Newly Fischer follows a thief’s trail to a settlement along the Lake Superior shore. A breath-taking chase through the rugged wilds of Gray Wolf Pass ensues. With the lake as a majestic backdrop, this exciting old-time adventure takes the reader on a frozen scramble through snowy forests and rugged terrain, with both man and beast as foe. Pick up your copy and join Newly Fischer on his quest for revenge and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365546624

Robert Reynolds

Based in Calgary, Robert is an emerging author who spends his days working in the oil and gas industry but has been a big fan of the spy thriller genre ever since his childhood when he read one of his grandfather's original James Bond paperbacks from the late 50's. He is married with a young daughter and when he's not day dreaming about dangerous adventures in exotic locales he enjoys running and other outdoor pursuits.

Book preview

Gray Wolf Pass

GRAY WOLF PASS

By Robert Reynolds

Copyright 2016

This is entirely a work of fiction.  All characters, places and events are strictly the imagination of the author.  Any resemblance of persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Contents

Prologue

Past winters had been brutally cold, freezing over an immense inland sea the natives called Gichigami. A massive natural ice bridge formed over a vast body of water that others would one-day name Lake Superior.  It gave predators a direct path down from Canada.  Some of the ferocious animals chose to remain on Isle Royale close in to the Canadian shore, but others had daringly ventured across the ice to Keweenau, a long, narrow peninsula that jutted northward eighty miles into the immense lake.  Over time, the animals had wandered south down the narrow Keweenau to where they could more freely roam. 

Gray wolves had found the bitterly cold winters and frozen lake especially fortuitous for their ramblings in search of fresh hunting grounds. Wildlife was abundant and the wolves flourished.  With the discovery of copper-filled fissure veins in parts of that rugged North Country came miners seeking fortunes.  Other settlers found their way to the area and settlements sprung up in what would become known as Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  Farmers brought livestock, thus providing new prey for the ravenous animals to exploit. Fur, feather and bone littered the rugged high grounds near the lake. 

Near the settlements, the animal’s mournful wails could be heard piercing the frigid nights.  The harsher the winter, the more emboldened the wolves became.

Occasionally an ill-fated human wandered into the animals’ unforgiving domain.

Part One

Newly Fischer

Chapter 1

The riders had started out cross-country on their way to L’anse, but soon after beginning their climb into higher elevations the air had grown cold and snow begun to fall.  It had fallen hard during the early morning and now flurries still lingered. 

The farther into the hills the men traveled, the thicker the snowfall became until finally they decided to turn back and try to make for safety back Marquette way.  It was unwise to become stranded in these treacherous hills when a storm blew in off Lake Superior.  The incoming storm did not bode well for travelers on this miserable day.

Turning back, the men had covered little more than a mile when a shadow darted over the top of a rise and disappeared in the gray dusk of the falling snow.

Did you see that?

The first rider pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard on the side of his saddle.  In this remote place, it was best not to take lightly what lurked in the dark woods.

I saw something, but it was gone too quickly, the other man said. 

Already blowing snow had begun to cover their horse’s tracks, blurring the hoof prints until their trail was practically indistinct.  The harsh wind howled, rocking the pine trees.  New snow was accumulating into deep drifts making travel difficult. 

A few hundred arduous yards further along, the riders topped a small rise.  Thirty yards away, the animal they had seen earlier turned to curiously gaze their way. 

It’s that coyote, the first fellow shouted into the wind. 

Wolf, the other man said.  The wind caught his words and spun them away with the swirling snow.

What’d you say?

Over there, the one rider shouted, pointing down the hillside.  Half a dozen fierce gray canines snarled and tore at a fresh carcass that lay half buried in the snow. 

They’re making quick work of that whitetail!

The lone wolf standing guard atop the rise bared its fangs and let out a low growl; a warning to the humans.   It was the size of the first man; lean, muscular and braced now to attack or to flee, depending on its instinct. 

The men’s horses fidgeted nervously under the wolf’s glaring stare. 

I can shoot it, the other man said into the bitter wind and reaching now for his weapon. With that, the wolf took off, bounding down the hillside through the snow. 

They’re cunning beasts, they are, he said above the wind. Gone before I could get my rifle in hand.

It was half the way down the hill now bounding through the snow and too far and too clever to waste a shot on. 

We don’t know how long we’re going to be in this maelstrom, the first man shouted. He pulled a bandana over his nose and mouth to protect against frostbite.

Storms came fierce and often, blowing in off the lake and winters lasted half the year.  By the end of the day the storm would be a full-blown blizzard.

I say we chase those wolves off and get what we can for ourselves.  We’ll need something hearty to roast up if this storm lets up.  We’ll chase ‘em off long enough to slice a few good hunks of venison and be out of here.

He sighted in and fired a few rounds their way, but with the snow blowing so hard, he missed badly.  The bullets cut harmlessly through a snow bank.  Intent on rending the carcass, the animals did not even hear the muffled shots from the weapon.

If we mean to have some of that meat, we’ll need to go down there and scare ‘em off.  I don’t like that idea, but it’s a risk we gotta take.

They rode down off the hill hooting, waving their hats wildly, shouting and firing their weapons.  The ravenous pack did not appreciate being driven from their meal.  A couple of them turned to confront the commotion, snarled and bared their fangs, but when one of the bullets grazed its rear end, the wounded animal let out a screech and drug itself off.  Reluctantly, the pack scrambled deeper into the woods, but not so far away they could not see their fallen prey.

Stay up there and watch that they don’t come running back down here, the first man commanded, jumping down from the saddle.  Snow came up to his knees.  He handed the reins to other man so the horse would not bolt if the wolves began to make their way back.  I’ll see if I can find a piece that’s not been all gnawed up.  Then we’ll high-tail it out of here.

His knife quickly sliced off a couple good chunks, the meat already beginning to freeze hard as the ground the carcass lay upon. 

From within the dark woods, the wolves eyed the men meanly for having stolen their kill.

Hurry up and let’s get out of here! 

The one with the meat swung himself into his saddle and they plodded off through the deepening snow as quickly as they could.

The two men had no sooner started up the rise than the pack rushed back and tore into the dead deer, snarling, growling, ripping the cold flesh apart and snapping viciously at each other. It was like that in thick, snowbound winter forests. 

Chapter 2

A century before, along the Canadian side of the St. Mary’s River, the Northwest Fur Company excavated a thirty-eight foot long canal.  This passageway allowed small vessels to skirt the rapids that dropped from Lake Superior, as the water rushed toward the lower Great Lakes.  However, within fifty years, the first in what would eventually become a small series of locks was built offering a more efficient method for vessels to navigate the rapidly rushing St. Mary’s River.  Ships entering the lock from either end would be raised or lowered accordingly by pumping water into or draining water from the lock.  The raising or lowering of the water within the lock compensated for the disproportionate water level at the opposite end, thus allowing the craft to sail away unimpeded.  The original lock, having become obsolete, Mr. Orlando Poe had engineered a system of new locks. Construction on the Poe Lock was well underway, which would eventually allow freighters to negotiate the twenty-one foot drop in elevation of the St. Mary’s. 

During the 1700s, both sides of the Soo were important fur trading settlements.  Here, on the western side of the rapids, had become the oldest settlement in Michigan and the third oldest settlement this side of the Appalachian Mountains.  The Ojibwa referred to the area as Baawitigong.

With construction going on, a grimy pall hung over the riverfront, the air heavy with powdery dust from the dried mud of the rivière Sainte-Marie; the St. Mary’s River, which cut a rapidly rushing swath between the two Sault Ste. Marys—one on the American side, the other on the Canadian side.  The river drained out of Lake Superior some seventy-five miles down to Lake Huron, dropping twenty-one feet along the way.  A series of rapids rushed between the two Soos, as folks were known to call the twin cities, making travel upstream nearly impossible without the aid of locks to raise and lower vessels. 

Along the town’s narrow streets, dried mud was churned into dust from the hooves of wagon teams steadily carting in construction materials.  The air virtually danced with minute earthen particles as the small clouds settled, leaving a dusting like an early autumn snowfall. 

Compounding the annoyance, cement dust rose like a soft gray smoke from where the men mixed concrete.  The concrete men appeared to be in white face like circus jesters and when a breeze came off the river, the dust swirled about the men as if they were consumed by miniature cyclones.

You boys hustle up with that batch of cee-ment, the boss yelled above the din of the pile drivers working steel piers down to bedrock.  We’ve a lotta work to finish before winter sets in.

We ain’t even finished summer! an Irish kid from Rudyard snapped back.  He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but he had a strong back.

It ain’t never summer here, another kid yelled.  He was from somewhere down south and had never experienced cold mornings like those coming in off Superior.

It don’t make no difference if it’s hot or cold, the boss mumbled.  We got ourselves a job to finish, so get a move on.

Chapter 3

It was here, along the low, cascading rapids that separated the two cities that Old Joe Runyan had invested all of his resources to capture a good share of the bounty that was being wildly disbursed by the workers engaged in building the lock. Many of the men and boys, far from home, left their hard-earned cash in Runyan’s dry goods store, and on exhausting nights like these, in his even busier tavern—the Owl’s Head.

Fill ‘er up again and this time don’t gimme me none of that swill, Sam Scruggs, the rough looking codger with teeth the color of rusty nails and a third of his right ear missing, snarled. He was a regular and he most often brought trouble.  

Newly Fischer reached for a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey from behind the bar and refilled the belligerent man’s glass.  With his other hand, Newly slid a wooden club closer along the shelf behind the bar.  He did not want trouble, but he knew enough to be ready if it came his way. 

That’ll be cash up front, Newly said, forcing a smile.  He was a jack-of-all-trades for Old Joe Runyan’s many endeavors up there in the Soo.  Runyan, the entrepreneur, involved himself in the operation of the Owl’s Head Tavern, Runyan’s Quality Mercantile, a general store of sorts, and he oversaw an assembly of teamsters who made runs to Detour, St. Ignace, and to many of the small towns in the area.  In exchange for a small room over the tavern, Newly had guided wagons, clerked in the old man’s store and tended bar when the tavern was shorthanded on busy Saturday nights.  On these raucous payday nights, money burned holes in the ragged pockets of lonely St. Mary’s lock construction workers. 

I trust you to handle my money in a fair and honest way, Old Joe had told him some time back and Newly Fischer strived to be worthy of the old man’s faith.  Some of these other boys I trust just about as far as I can throw a team of my horses.    

I was brought up an honest man, Newly had said, taking no offense.   He was smart enough to realize there were thieves and scoundrels galore and it wasn’t an easy chore sorting the good from the bad.  

Well, I can tell you this, Newly.  There ain’t but a few honest men around so if you stick to your belief, you’ll be mighty lonely.  Runyan had laughed, but he more than believed it. He’d gone through plenty of help during his many years and learned some harsh lessons along the way.

I’d rather be lonely and do what’s right, Newly had said. Riches had never tempted him.  

Some folks believe that doing right can give a man grief.

That may be so, Mr. Runyan, but after all is said and done, I’ll sleep with a clear conscience.

I believe you will, Newly Fischer.  I certainly believe you will.

Give me a cold one, Newly, a grubby fellow bellowed as he lumbered in off the street. Hello, Joe!

The man was covered in grime and dust from head to foot, coming straight over to the Owl’s Head from work on the lock. Plenty of the men laboring on the new lock made the Owl’s Head and others like it their first stop before calling it a day.

Comin’ up, Newly answered.  From the looks of you, Riley, you’re bringing home half the mud in the St. Mary’s.

A fella might think that, but there’s plenty more filth where this came from.

Well, next time, if you’d be so kind as to leave it down by the river, some folks in here would be beholden to you.  Ain’t that right, boss!

It don’t mean a lick to me, Grady, Joe Runyan laughed. It’s you boys that gotta clean up his mess.

Grady Sellers was his number two man after Newly Fischer. Grady was a good worker, but he just wasn’t much good with numbers.  Joe Runyan needed a reliable clerk to tally the inventory and sales.  Joe had Newly working with him, training him, but so far, progress had been slow.  

I’m tryin’ my best, boss, a perplexed Grady had said, scratching his head.  But me and figures just don’t seem to get along.

You stick with it, Grady, Joe said, placing a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder.  Don’t be in no rush.  It’ll come to you. 

I don’t want to let you down.  That’s all it is.

Do your best, Grady.  That’s all I ask.

Don’t give me none of that pigswill! Scruggs bellowed from his end of the bar.  Samuel Scruggs seldom asked, he demanded.  Be quick about it, boy!

You don’t get swill at the Owl’s Head, Joe Runyan shot back.  If you want swill, there’s plenty other places along the waterfront where you can take your business. 

I’ll do it, Joe.  I swear I will do it.

Be my guest, Sam, Joe Runyan said, paying little attention to the other man’s ramblings.  You go right ahead and go.  But I happen to know you’ve been tossed outta practically every half-decent place within walking distance of that new river lock.

Runyan went to the back, to his office, leaving Sam Scruggs to sulk.

Newly slid the whiskey-filled glass partway across the bar, but did not fully relinquish it to Sam Scruggs.  

I need to see your cash, Sam, Newly said sternly, but politely.  He had learned that it was best to secure the cash before giving up the drink. That’s the rule.

I ain’t never stiffed this rat hole of a place yet, Scruggs mumbled without looking up. He was drunk to the point that lifting his head was a chore and after fourteen hours hauling cement and steel for the new Poe Lock, he did not wish to expend the energy.    

You know the rules, Newly repeated.

The Barton brothers ambled in and took seats at an empty table halfway back across the dimly lit room.  They were regulars and well known in the waterfront dives for their troublesome ways.

You there! one of them called out.  Bring us a coupl’a beers.

Virgil Sikes, part-time barkeep and full-time trouble, headed their way with the drinks. Virgil had a better way about him around riffraff of the Barton’s ilk; Virgil could relate to meanness. Newly, on the other hand, preferred not to have anything to do with the other two. 

Don’t you look all ladylike in your perty little apron, Freddie Barton badgered.  He and brother Roy were good at riling up folks as long as the two of them were together.  On his own, neither one of them was much of a problem.  Alone, nothing would have been said.

I can tell you this, boys.  I can put the tail of this ol’ apron around your skinny chicken necks about thrice and we’ll see how much fun you’re havin’, Virgil Sikes sneered, but quiet enough so that no one else could hear over the din.  He said it with a humorous smirk.  But folks who knew Virgil knew that it could turn into more than a simple idle threat if he got rubbed the wrong way.  He wasn’t one to provoke a person face to face, but let them turn their back and just see what Virgil could do. 

Aw, lighten up, Virg, Roy Barton said.  You know he’s just joshin’.

I know that, boys.  The smirk had left Virgil’s face and now only meanness showed. He was about as low as one of those black rat snakes a fella might come upon while traipsing about in those cedar bogs to the west of town.  Virgil poked his finger sharply in Roy Barton’s chest. I surely do know that…

Orange-toothed Scruggs fumbled around in his pocket then slapped a couple coins on the bar.  The larger of the two clanked down, spun on its edge like a child’s top and tumbled off the countertop, jangling across the floor.  The money having been anted up, Newly pushed the man’s drink his way, retrieved the coin from off the wooden floor and plunked the coins in the till.

For much of the evening, Virgil had been sneaking nips