In Conclusion: 33 Dead & a Turkey for Dinner

In the gray twilight of the hour that precedes the coming of the sun, forms are difficult to make out. Sight seems dimmed and untrustworthy. The whole world appears to be made up of shadows.

Those shadows are moving. Figures shift. The low voices of both men and horses can be heard. Small white clouds drift in the dark air like ghosts, marking the mouths of living creatures. Hard hooves clop against rock as one horse or another shifts on its feet occasionally. Boots shuffle and scuff. Leather squeaks. Metal jingles and quietly rings like little sleigh bells.

That last sound is somewhat fitting, it being Christmas morning here in the Cherokee Strip cattle country of Oklahoma. And it being Christmas morning, there are only the most necessary chores to do, meaning that after those chores there is a whole day of free time for all the local cowboys. And there being a whole day of free time for all at once, this Christmas a special event has been arranged: A circle drive hunt after wolves at Walnut Grove on the Cimarron River.

The wolves residing in Walnut Grove have made themselves odious to all the cattlemen within forty miles for the last decade. They hunt and kill the ranchers’ livestock, and to add insult to injury, it is mostly the healthy stock that suffer wolf depredations. When a sick or injured cow refuses to move, the wolves usually won’t bother it. But any cow that will run from them becomes a target.

In the eyes of the wolves, an animal that will not stand and face them is an animal that they might be able to pull down to its death. An animal that stands still and looks them in the face is a confident, strong one that is willing to fight them off. This is according to the laws passed down through their generations. American bison lived here several wolf generations ago, and only one human generation ago. The wolves have not forgotten the hunting strategies that brought down bison and kept their packs alive. So far the same strategies are still granting them life by working on their new prey, the only large kind available, the kind that flooded their land just as their old prey was disappearing. The kind of prey that is smaller than the old but easier to kill. A law concerning this new prey has already been understood by the wolves: When you make the kill, eat as much as you will. Once you leave it, never come back. Death waits for you in the meat if you dare to eat from a carcass a second time.

This well-heeded law of the wolves also angers the ranchers. Their poison has gone from effective to useless as wolves learn to live with it instead of die by it.

To try to rid the region of this enemy of cattle and their keepers, or at least bring the numbers down, is the aim of the enormous drive hunt. From a surrounding twenty-five-mile radius, it has been planned that six hundred men and horses will gather. There are also two women on horseback. One is the sister, the other the wife of a cowboy participating. All the horses have been fed well on corn to keep them in good condition through the winter. All the men are eagerly awaiting the coming action. They speak to each other, wafting the smell of coffee and eggs and bacon into each other’s faces with every word.

Another group of riders approaches those already assembled, and a hailing cry goes up. These newcomers have ridden thirty-five miles, ten more than anyone else. They were up and on their way two hours before light to get here on time. They are the last to arrive, and the hunt can now begin. The cowboys begin to split into groups of ten, with a captain appointed over each squad. The captain’s job will be to prevent any accidents with firearms, since it has been insisted that every man must be allowed to carry whatever gun he wants. A squad should only fire at the carefully considered command of a captain.

A glowing line on the horizon heralds the dawn. Up comes the sun, slowly revealing the hunting ground down below and to the South of Encampment Butte. A pocket-watch's hands point to 10:00.

The Cimarron River flows East in a great curve. Just before that curve is Walnut Grove, thick with chaparral and its namesake walnut trees. No horse can be ridden there due to the thick ground cover. On the East end of the grove, sand dunes covered in short plum tree brush begin, embraced by a great curve of river. Stretching a few miles up and down the river on the far South side is a salt plain that no animal frequents. Where the salt plain ends downriver, a steep bank sometimes reaches up to twenty feet high. That bank is cleaved by only a very few cattle trails. The rest is sheer and difficult to climb.

Twenty men are sent to a river ford and ordered to lie in wait on the cattle trail on the opposite bank for any wolf that might try to swim away. Two hundred go to the West side of the grove to begin beating it for prey. Four hundred form a long line from the beginning of the grove all the way down to the sand dunes, on the side not guarded by the river. The entire stronghold is besieged by men.

The beating commences at 10:30. This is done on foot and with guns firing into the unseen underbrush. Not even a third of the grove has been beaten when a buck and doe flee it. Upon seeing so many men, they turn tail and go back into the thickets. When half the grove has been beaten out, a flock of turkeys takes flight. Despite orders not to shoot without a captain’s permission, every gunman who can see the birds lets his bullets fly. One bird falls, not dead, only wounded. A captain named Reese is the one who runs it down and finishes it. He refuses to acknowledge the rebuke of the overseeing captain, Bill Miller. While speaking to Reese, Miller is drawn away when he hears cries some ways off. Miller receives a three-fold report from a captain name Lynch: Firstly, a few wolves had been sighted. Secondly, some cowboys were shooting their guns down the river to see how far the bullets and and reports could reach. Thirdly, other cowboys were caught running their horses in brief races when they should have been standing at attention in the line of guards.

The beaters come across cattle carcasses scattered through the grove. These cows were selected for their deformities, herded here, and shot as bait for the wolves last week. It was hoped the wolves would not go out to hunt, but stay home and feast until it was too late to escape.

When the deer are chased out of the trees again, they swim the river, escaping through a hail of bullets. Antelope are driven out by the beaters, and fifty men shoot for all they’re worth, but not one antelope falls. Cowboys chase the swift animals with twirling lassos, catching two. Finally the line reforms and keeps tightening around the grove.

Two and a half hours from the time the hunt began, at 1:00, the wolves have been chased and hemmed all the way into a trap of the river's curve, to a sandbar covered in driftwood trees. There is no other cover left to run to. They are unseen, hiding in the tangled maze of weathered gray wood that matches their coat color perfectly.

A score of wolves leaves the driftwood and advances to the edge of the sandbar. The twenty men in ambush across the river fire their rifles, and the wolves race back to their cover. The captains beg for a total ceasefire, since all six hundred hunters have now drawn close together for the final assault.

The front line of cowboys comes even with the driftwood pile. Beyond it, a huge pack of wolves is milling. The animals left their refuge at the approach of the men and are wetting their feet in the cold winter river, circling about, snarling and whining as they try to choose which direction to run. Every gun comes up and aims.

The men on the opposite bank are of little use, as any shot they make might hit their fellows on this side. A group known for marksmanship is picked out from the main body and sent upstream, where they attempt to shoot almost directly downstream into the wolf pack. They hit a few, some of which try to swim the river. This is not the desired outcome. The shooters are quickly called off and ordered to get on the ground, out of the line of friendly fire. When the few swimming wolves stagger out on the far bank, they are met with a storm of lead from the ambush.

Before the sopping wet animals across the water can be killed, the rest of the wolves charge at the multitude of cowboys on the near shore. An enormous wolf leads the pack, outpacing the rest of his kin. Two hundred yards of separation shrinks to half that as every man on the ground scrambles into his saddle. Bullets rain like deadly hail on the wolf pack.

All the wolves but one turn back, leaving the leader alone. Tufts of fur fly as he is strafed by stings deadlier than those of bees. He does not stop. He forges on, racing right into the midst of the pack of humans that is attacking him and his own pack.

The giant wolf strikes again and again, snapping at horses’ legs with his enormous jaws. The larger beasts shy away in fear, carrying their riders with them. The wolf breaks through line after line, always to be faced with another living barrier as all eyes remain fixed on him. The fur on his back and neck bristles straight up. Long teeth shine white in his pink mouth. Afternoon sunlight glares in his eyes, reflecting twin suns from his face. His unending growl rumbles like thunder.

A lasso drops over the wolf’s head and the loop pulls tight. He leaps up, sinking his teeth deep—but not into living flesh. He bites the stirrup fender, stiff leather that covers the front of the stirrup and shields the cowboy’s boot. A bullet stills him at last, before he can be dragged to death.

Buckshot is eventually tried on the remaining wolves that have hidden themselves back in the driftwood. The pack breaks from cover and flees into the crowd of horses and men. One jumps and latches onto a horse’s throat, dragging it down with its rider aboard. Some take to the water and others terrorize the men by trying to weave through the legs of the horses, which are squealing in terror at the powder burns they receive. Guns go off with an unbelievable collective bang. Loops of twirling rope hiss through the smoky air. The dull thuds of guns being used as clubs on big furry heads can somehow be heard in the chaos.

The tally at the end is twenty-six dead wolves on the grove side of the river, seven on the other. Each of the thirty-three bodies is worth a $20 bounty locally. $660 is quite a sum, though it will only be $1.01 for each of the six hundred men.

The turkey shot earlier is served with eggnog at Reese’s camp for Christmas dinner.