Everyone was dead.
Mike didn't have to ride down there to see that. He yanked on his collar, already up as far as it would go, and glared across a mile of drifts to the tiny cabin.
Clucking his tongue, he nudged Cookie forward, dropping his eyes to the hillside falling away before them. The last time Mike was here, Cookie was a rangy, raw two-year-old, dancing along on a tether behind Mike's old mare. Mike hadn't even considered naming the stallion before he rode through Linnley's valley, but Linnley's little sister had taken care of that.
Closer to the cabin, Mike saw the unbroken rink of the paddock next to the barn. Stalagmites of snow poked up in the lee of each post, only a foot above the surface of the shifting white mass. He slowed as he approached. Mike had run upon enough apparently abandoned cabins in the past decade not to want to see what waited for him here. He'd rather remember the beanpot full of daisies on the windowsill and the tiny feisty girl mothering her siblings in their parents' absence.
He reigned Cookie in fifty yards shy of the cabin and sat studying the place from his perch on the stallion's broad back, finding no sign of life despite the hope he'd tried not to harbor on his laborious trek across the valley floor. He picked his way around to the man-sized door on the leeward side of the barn, blocked from the wind by a tacked-on corn crib, and kicked enough snow aside to wrestle it open. Cookie waited, reigns hanging loosely, as Mike ventured in.
The dark still cave was ice cold, but a welcome relief from the constant wind without. Mike stamped his feet and tipped his hat back to look around. He sniffed. What hay remained smelled fresh, lacking the low rancid odor running under mold in some abandoned barns. Mike took a couple slow steps. A rustle overhead reassured him and he glanced up. A dozen hens stared down from the gloom above the rafters.
He shouldered the door wide and led Cookie inside. He'd let the horse rest, overnight at least, before heading over the mountain to the ranch he now called his own. There was hay and hopefully water to be had without melting snow. Either way, they'd both enjoy being under cover for a while after spending a week stranded in the early blizzard. Mike found a bag of meal and scattered some for the chickens before he left.
In a knee-deep drift on the cabin's low porch he stood listening for a minute before pounding on the hand-split boards, hollering a greeting.
He got what he expected: nothing. Pushing the door ajar on its rawhide hinges, he stepped in.
Barely over the threshold, Mike stopped, suddenly alarmed, though he couldn't say why.
The cabin was as dark and silent as an empty cabin should be, but something wasn't quite right. He turned his head, hearing nothing over the low moaning wind from the open door. It was quiet, but spotless, and food smells lingered. Way over against the wall to his left, a narrow bed lay piled high with quilts. Mike was studying the shape of the pile, about to investigate, when something moved on the far side.
Incongruous as it seemed in this setting, Mike knew immediately what the bit of black fur rising behind the mountain of quilts meant. The lack of space between him and the cot quelled his instinctive urge to fall back through the door. There was no way he'd get the heavy, awkward slab shut in time to save his life.
In the seconds before the wolf's head made it over the level of the blankets, Mike dismissed retreat, a dash forward to the cabin's other room, and using the Colt pistols hanging by both thighs. The sheepskin gloves he wore slowed his trigger finger, and a bullet would probably just anger the beast, anyway. He stayed still.
Mike didn't move when the silver eyes met his, when a low growl rumbled across the room, not even when the wolf's lips twisted into a deadly snarl. He assessed the odds and contemplated his options. The wolf lowered its head, ready to stand, and Mike decided he better do something quick. Before either had a chance to make up his mind, a sound came from within the nest of blankets, and everything changed.
One of nature's most elegant predators, the great beast turned instantly to a tender-hearted pet. Its eyes softened as they left Mike's, its ears tipped forward, its mouth opened, and one pie-sized paw fell atop the cot.
The blankets shifted slightly and the wolf whined, nuzzling whatever lay there.
Mike moved, the shock too much for him, and the cold eyes snapped back to his. Again he froze, but the creature didn't snarl this time. Its eyes flicked from Mike to the cot and back, the massive head settled alongside its paw, and a high mournful cry slipped from between closed lips.
Conscious thought returned in plenty of time to tell Mike he'd lost his mind, but he took a cautious step forward, nonetheless. When the beast, watching him, didn't budge, he took another one. And another. He lowered his body as he approached, trying not to alarm the wolf, until at last he knelt opposite it. The wolf kept his attention on the blanket-covered mass and ignored Mike as he lifted a hand to the quilts.
As slowly as he felt the need to work, an eternity passed while Mike peeled away layers, but the wolf didn't waver other than to lift its head out of the way. Its crystalline gaze never strayed from the bed. Finally, under five quilts and a Hudson bay blanket, Mike located a tangled mass of black curls. He peeked at the wolf, still not moving, and brushed the damp, dirty hair aside. She was facing the other direction, but the freckled porcelain of her cheek told him it was probably Sophia. Her skin was clammy and not very warm, even under all that bedding, and she smelled like illness and urine.
Mike rested a palm on her forehead, and she moaned softly. The wolf stood, looming over the bed and Mike on the other side, nosing his hand away to sniff the girl, lapping her face and nudging her chin with its shiny coal nose.
Mike sat back on his heels, glancing from the wolf to the girl, and took a deep breath.
"Alright, you."
The huge head turned toward him. The icy silver eyes in the midnight black face made Mike think of his own death, likely only moments away.
"I can't just leave her there. I'm going to start a fire and get some water on, then I'm gonna take care of her."
The wolf watched Mike as he spoke.
"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't eat my ass while I'm tryin' to do all that."
They stared at each other. The wolf appeared calmer about the prospect than Mike felt, so he took another breath and stood. The wolf laid his head down next to Sophia, and Mike released the air he'd been holding in.
"Jeeee-sus," he muttered, creeping away.
By the time Mike arrived at the table six hours later, they'd both relaxed somewhat, but he sat with his back to the stove so he could keep an eye on the wolf while he ate, anyway.
With one last look at Sophia, the wolf stretched and glided silently to the cabin's entry, waiting patiently for Mike to get the message.
Mike opened the door and the wolf walked out, sniffing the air from the porch for a minute before loping away toward the woods at the valley's west end. Mike collapsed on the chair he'd set next to Sophia's bed, a giant sigh rushing from his lungs with a shaky laughing chaser.
"Jeeee-sus," he said again.
-- o -- O -- o --
It took a week for Sophia to be well enough to talk, and another blizzard hit in the meantime. The wolf came and went, never staying away more than half a day, spending all its indoor hours on the bare wood floor next to Sophia's bed. Mike thought about not letting it in when it scratched at the sill requesting entry, but he'd have to go out eventually, and he didn't want to provoke it.
The next time it returned bearing a gift, an enormous white hare with a broken neck and a few spots of blood on its spiky wet fur. Mike opened the door and the wolf padded in on a whisper of frigid air, dropping the hare at Mike's feet before heading to his spot at Sophia's side.
