The Tupelo Land Grab

Tupelo, Wyoming

1878

“This goes beyond the pale,” Eddie Ponderosa says, lighting a cigar.

His stocky companion, Leake Bevil, offers a bewildered look. “What’s that mean? You been readin’ again, Eddie?”

“I’m thirty- six, Leake. I’m lucky to have come out of the War in one piece. I don’t plan to shoot people for a living much longer.”

“But we ain’t shootin’ people now. We’re gunnin’ for coyotes.”

“Wolves,” Eddie corrects. Puffing heartily on his cigar, he climbs down from his horse.

Reaching into his saddle bag, Eddie extracts a small telescope, focusing on a clump of purple sage bushes.

“There’s half a dozen of them coming at us now through the arroyo,” he says, handing Leake the telescope.

“Easy pickins. Is that a white wolf in the lead?”

Eddie reaches for his buffalo gun, loading the powerful fifty-caliber rifle. “Yeah. This time of year, they’re supposed to be further north in the mountains, away from this blistering heat.”

“Maybe it’s some kinda freak, like a two-headed turtle or a circus midget,” Leake replies.

Leake shudders.

“What’s the matter?” Eddie asks.

“The white wolf. It’s lookin’ at me.”

“You’re balmy. It can’t see us. We’re hidden by a line of trees,” Eddie replies.

Leake looks around nervously.

“I’ve lost ‘em. I can’t see the rest of the pack no more.”

Eddie snatches away the telescope, smoke issuing from the side of his mouth like a steam engine as he puffs away at his cigar.

“I wonder where they could be?” Leake asks aloud.

Leake’s question is answered by the growls from the pack of wolves creeping up behind them.

Eddie is barely able to raise his gun before the wolves knock him to the ground.

“FIRE!”

Slumbering Marshal Logan Wade falls out of his bed, his dull senses swirling as his body hits the floorboards.

A second voice screams, “BEJESUS! GET THE BUCKETS!”

Stumbling around in the dark, Logan slams his foot against the edge of the bed, cursing as he throws his clothes on over his nightshirt.

Running out of the rooming house down Main Street, Logan is awestruck by the sight of the Presley Palace in flames. Flames surge out of the windows of both stories of the elegant Victorian hotel.

A woman and her little boy flee through the choking smoke as townspeople carrying buckets of water splash the building’s exterior.

At only twenty-seven, Logan’s prematurely grey hair, brushy mustache, and sunbaked skin make him look older and wiser than he is. But this is the former store clerk’s first job as a Marshal, and he feels woefully inadequate at dispensing the law.

Logan can only point and give orders that no one pays attention to as he watches the chaos unfold around him.

Logan catches sight of an animal sitting on its haunches near the end of the street. Unaffected by the thick, choking smoke, the beautiful white wolf watches the townspeople run haphazardly through the streets.

Logan rubs his watering eyes. When his vision clears, the wolf is gone.

Presley Palace explodes. Splintered furniture, shattered lamps, and knickknacks bombard the curious spectators.

Walter Cavendish, the town’s only lawyer, dashes to Logan’s side.

The hotel’s smoldering sign lands at their feet.

The dark-haired, stylish twenty-eight-year-old lawyer scratches his forehead, clearing his throat.

“There’s the first piece of evidence in your investigation, Marshal Wade. Buildings aren’t supposed to explode like that.”

A strong wind rips through town, blasting everyone with gritty sand, and sending paper and garbage swirling around in the streets.

“A sudden windstorm after a fire. That’s your second piece of evidence,” Walter mutters, brushing sand off of his suit.

The powerful wind extinguishes the fire.

Bowlegged Deputy Lindell Robillard ambles up to Logan. The grizzled fiftyish Tupelo native had wanted the position of Marshall a year ago, but the bedlam of the past few weeks makes him glad he was passed over.

“Strange doings, eh, Marshal? You suppose it’s some Tupelo black magic?”

“No. And for the last time, Lindell, the Tupelo Indians aren’t magicians, witches, or devils. Did everybody get out?”

“All accounted for. Except for Simon Dressler.”

“Hopefully, he didn’t decide to act like a captain and go down with his ship. You start lookin’ for him, okay?”

The last gasp of wind blows a piece of paper against Logan’s face. He tears it away, glancing at the message on the paper. Grunting, he balls it up, dropping it at his feet.

The message registers in his mind. Reaching down, he picks up the rumpled piece of paper, opening it.

“What in the Sam Hill…”

“Something bothering you?” Walter asks, brushing sand from his hair.

Logan hands him the paper.

“Hey, my name is on this.”

“So’s Brick Hauser, as well as Simon Dressler, Eddie Ponderosa, and Leake Bevil.”

“Eddie and Leake died in the territory we just acquired from the Tupelo just a few days ago. Doc said they died of thirst within a few feet of a stream. Then the animals got to them. It was a stomach-turning scene… Hey, is this what I think it is?”

“It ain’t a Christmas card list, Walter. It’s a death list of people involved in the Tupelo land grab. Dressler, Ponderosa, and Bevil’s names are crossed off.”

“Pshaw. You’re just being your usual skittish self. And stop calling it a land grab. It was done above board.”

Lindell limps toward them. “We found Simon Dressler, Marshal.”

Logan and Walter follow the downcast deputy to the smoking rubble of the hotel.

Simon Dressler’s body is underneath a pile of planks.

“Shouldn’t he be burnt to a crisp?” Walter asks.

Kneeling, Logan examines Simon’s remains. “Maybe these boards fell on him and protected his body from bein’ burnt. Then again, there’s the rope around his neck.”

Lindell pours Logan and Walter cups of coffee.

Logan nearly gags at its sour taste.

“This mud’s so strong you could walk across it,” Logan notes.

“Doc said Simon died from hanging,” Walter says. “Everybody liked the nearsighted cheapskate. Who would do something like that to him?”

“Maybe a stranger was robbin’ the till and Simon caught him,” Lindell suggests.

“So, you blow up the hotel to hide the crime? Robbery doesn’t warrant such hateful treatment,” Walter replies.

“Don’t worry, Walt, you got me and Marshal Wade on the case. We’ll get ‘em by hook or by crook.”

Logan glances out the front window of the jail.

The white wolf is sitting across the street.

“You ponder’ somethin’, Marshal?” Lindell asks. “What you look’ at?”

“The most doggone thing. There’s a white wolf sittin’ calm as can be outside of Olson’s Dry Goods starin’ at the jail.”

The two other men join Logan at the window.

“Kinda regal lookin’ animal, ain’t she Walt?” Lindell asks.

Walter absentmindedly tries to set his cup down on the desk. It hits the floor, shattering.

Walter backs away from the window, slowly retreating toward the jail’s back door.

“…Sorry about the cup. It’s been a dandy of a night…”

“Somethin’ wrong, Walter?” Logan asks.

“I’m tired. And I’m not partial to wolves.”

Walter turns up the kerosine lamp in his bedroom.

A shadow in the corner of the room catches his eye.

Walter reaches for the derringer in his jacket pocket. His hand shaking, he points the gun at the darkened corner.

“C’mon out. I may not be a sharpshooter, but at this range, I’m not going to miss.”

A striking, dark-haired Tupelo woman steps into the light, her determined stare paralyzing Walter.

“…White Feather…,” he gasps. “It was Brick’s idea to steal your people’s land, not mine. I had to help him. He threatened me. I just filed the papers. Brick was so blindly in love with you, that he thought you would marry him if he owned your land.”

White Feather slowly nods, her unflinching stare indicating understanding but showing no mercy.

“I guess I deserve to be on the list,” Walter says.

Birch Hauser runs his calloused hands over his grimy face, looking at the blinding sun.

Known as Brick for his towering height, strapping build, and ever-somber expression, Hauser has built his empire up from a thousand to a hundred thousand acres, absorbing his neighbors' failed ranches. It was rumored he would have done anything to annex the Tupelo’s fertile farmland, but now that he has, his fortunes have soured.

For the ten days, since the desertion of most of his men, Brick and his two remaining hired hands have tried to care for his cattle, scratched in the rain-starved earth for food, and mostly prayed for rain.

It’s not lost on Brick that it hasn’t rained since his last encounter with White Feather weeks ago.

“Ten o’clock in the morning and it's already as hot as Hades,” Brick says.

Shifting in their saddles, Brick, Alkali Atkinson, and Boots Bonzer, look at the dry, empty valley where a hundred of Brick’s cows should be grazing.

“Did you say wolves done it?” Brick asks.

Alkali Atkinson, Brick’s craggy-faced foreman, spits a stream of tobacco juice between his missing front teeth.

“Yes, sir. A dozen or more, with a white one leadin’ the charge. Me and Boots couldn’t get to the critters in time to turn ‘em. Them wolves chased your beeves right off a cliff.”

The trio slowly rides to the far side of the cliff. Dismounting, they look down at the pile of smashed and broken cattle.

A wolf howls in the distance. Grabbing his hunting rifle, Brick scans the adjoining cliffs.

A white wolf sits perched on the edge of a cliff a few hundred yards away.

Brick raises the rifle, looking through the scope.

“Ain’t white wolves supposed to be sacred to the Tupelo?” Boots asks.

Brick takes aim at the wolf.

“You oughtta know by now that nothing’s sacred around here, Boots.”

The wolf stares at Brick, daring him to pull the trigger.

“It’s got them strange blue eyes, like White Feather,” Alkali notes.

Brick’s hands go numb. He lowers the rifle.

“White Wolf’s still got a hold on you, don’t she?” Alkali asks.

“She’s got a hold on all of us,” Brick replies, remembering the last night he saw White Wolf…

After a two-mile, late-night chase into Tupelo territory, Brick, Walter Cavendish, Simon Dressler, Eddie Ponderosa, and Leake Bevil capture White Wolf by shooting her horse out from underneath her.

The men cautiously handle the blue-eyed beauty. White Feather is the daughter of Chief Divine Wolf, the leader of the Tupelo, who are renowned for their skill in the art of magic.

Despite the other’s protests, Eddie and Leake tie White Wolf between two horses.

Brick smiles victoriously. “This can be so easy, White Feather. Be my wife. Together we’ll rule over a hundred thousand acres.”

White Feather’s earnest blue eyes bore into Brick as she sneers at him.

“I already rule. Why share the Tupelo’s good fortune with an invader? But my capture is not just about the land, is it, Hauser?”

Brick rages. “You’re supposed to be my woman!”

“Why, because you gave me some flowers and a few trinkets? You are not a Tupelo. You are not even a worthy white man. You have a lust for money and power where your heart should be and no capacity to make magic.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s see your magic get you outta this, prairie witch! I got you a-comin’ and a -goin! This is the last time I’m gonna let you shame me by turnin’ me down. You and your people are through. I want your land, and I’m takin’ it. And I’m gonna take you just for fun.”

A wolf howls in the distance. The men’s horses shuffle uneasily.

“You will regret even thinking such a thing, Hauser.”

“What’s she mean by that?” Simon asks, shifting his spectacles.

“I don’t know,” Walter replies. “But I do know I don’t want to find out.”

“This has gone far enough, Brick,” Simon says. She’s called your bluff. We got the Tupelo’s land through the courts. We’ve won. Let White Feather go back to her people.”

“Nobody makes me look like a fool. You’re gonna bite the ground, White Feather. I’m gonna wipe that cocky smile off your face.”

“Enough’s enough,” Eddie says, tossing aside a dead cigar. “You hired me and Leake to help chase the Tupelo off their land. Then you told us to chase wolves, which was a mighty strange request, given we’re man killers, not dog exterminators. Okay, I may have shot a few fast guns in the back in my lifetime, but I’ve never killed a woman, and I ain’t gonna start now.”

“That goes for us too,” Simon adds.

“I ain’t expectin’ you two muckety-mucks to cowboy up.”

A wolf howls behind them.

Brick draws his gun.

“Put that thing away, Brick, before someone gets hurt,” Walter cautions. “That wolf’s close. Don’t make it mad.”

A second wolf howls.

“That one’s just ahead of us,” Brick says.

Waving his gun at White Feather, he wails, “They’re your people, aren’t they? Well, I’m not gonna let them set you free.”

A third wolf howls. Then all three let out a bloodthirsty howl.

Laughing wildly, Brick fires his gun haphazardly at the unseen wolves.

Terrified, the horses tied to White Feather bolt in opposite directions.

White Feather lets out a brief, agonized scream as she’s torn apart.

The wolves whimper, the men gasp, and then the entire Tupelo Valley goes silent...

Logan and Lindell look at Walter’s body stretched out on the bed.

“Must’a happened last night. Is it murder or suicide?” Lindell asks.

“Could be either.”

“I ain’t never seen a suicide where the victim is so neatly laid out. But Walt, he was a real fop, so it figures,” Lindell observes. “If the bullet that killed him came out the back of his head, then he had to put the gun in his mouth…”

“And if he fired that bullet, then the gun wouldn’t be sitting so neatly by his side,” Logan concludes. “Does it strike you funny he killed himself with a gun?”

“Yep. Walt hated guns. We got ourselves a killer in Tupelo. You scared, Marshal?”

“I’d be a fool not to be.”

The howl of a wolf wakes Brick from his drunken sleep. Still intoxicated, he reaches for the revolver sitting on his nightstand.

The crumpled piece of paper he found earlier on the porch that evening falls to the floor. Brick was going to toss it aside, but a strong breeze blew it in his face.

Every name on the paper is crossed off, including his.

A wolf howls in the distance.

Picking up his gun, Brick stumbles around in the dark.

A shadow flashes by the front window of the house.

A second shadow pauses by the far window, close enough for Brick to see it’s a wolf.

“Tupelo tricksters! Your land belongs to me now!”

Raising his gun, Brick fires at the window.

It shatters. The wolf’s unforgiving image slowly dissipates.

Its mocking howl hangs in the air.

Stumbling toward the door, Brick yanks it open.

“…The barn… They’re hiding in the barn…”

Staggering across the rough sand, Brick keeps his gun at the ready.

Opening the barn door, Brick sees the watery figures of half a dozen growling wolves.

At the head of the pack is a white wolf.

Locking eyes with Brick, it snarls, inching forward.

Brick shoots at the white wolf’s watery form. It snaps at him, baring its sharp teeth.

No matter how much he curses, no matter how many bullets he fires, the wolves continue to close in on him.

Alone on his ranch, no one hears Brick’s scream.

Miles away, the collective howl of the wolves in the hills wakes up the townspeople of Tupelo.

Logan hands Lindell his badge.

“What’s this about?” Lindell asks.

“I’m hangin’ up my fiddle. You just been promoted. I’m takin’ a job ridin’ shotgun for Wells Fargo. It’s less stressful.”

A white wolf ambles down the street. As it slowly passes the two men, it locks eyes with Logan.

He envisions a beautiful Indian woman with hypnotic blue eyes.

“There’s that wolf you saw the other night,” Lindell says, excitedly pulling out his gun.

Logan forces his hand back down.

“Alkali and Boots found Brick’s body yesterday when they came back to the ranch from ridin’ fence. They said he was killed by a wolf. That must be the one!”

“Leave her alone, Lindell.”

The wolf walks toward the edge of town, fading from their sight.

“But she’s a mankiller,” Lindell says.

“Let her go. She’s only going home.”