Free Red Moon by Ralph Cotton

sudden that could cause a commotion or trigger an attack.
    One firm pull of the trigger and he knew he had the lead wolf dead in its tracks. The others would scatter, but for how long? And how many others were there? No matter, he thought. This was no place to take on a pack of wolves. A high narrow ledge like this, even with his Winchester levering shot after shot, the pack would soon overpower him. He would go to the ground beneath a flurry of claws and fangs, or off the edge down a steep cliff hillside of jagged rock. Either way he would be dead.
    Easy, boy. . . .
    He noted the lead wolf’s growl grew quieter as he took his steps backward. The animal made no move forward, nor did he lower into a crouch in preparation for an attack. The fact that the lead wolf hadn’t immediately sprung upon him and brought the others with it gave him reason to think they weren’t ready to take him as prey—not right then anyway, he told himself, his rifle ready to explode at the slightest sign from the big pack leader.
    They had found the scent of man and horse on their trail and had ventured forward to take a look. Man they could do without, but warm horseflesh under a dry overhang on a wet night like this would be too much for the carnivores to pass up. Still, this was a curiosity call, he decided, backing away one cautious step after another without the lead wolf stalking forward.
    Had he turned and run or made any sudden move at all, the wolf’s natural instincts would have been to pursue him, to take him down. But he wasn’t about to show fear if he could keep from it. After all, he’d spent the previous night holed up with a panther, he reminded himself.
    So far, so good.
    He moved backward slow and steadily and made his way around the turn in the narrow ledge without the pack leader following. Once he’d put the turn between him and the leader, he breathed a little easier. He knew predators were visual, no species more so than wolves. The fact that the wolf had let him out of its sight was a good sign. Now to keep the big leader back.
    Before he had gone ten feet, he saw the tip of the wolf’s nose appear around the turn in the ledge path. With a loose, quick aim, he squeezed the trigger and watched a spray of rock fragments jump in every direction as the explosion resounded. The wolf’s muzzle vanished; a yipping cry went up as the animal spun in pain and fear and raced away.
    All right, he’d had a good turn of luck. Now it was time to clear out, he thought. He retreated as the wolf’s cry grew farther away, out from under the cliff overhang and up the hillside. Unable to lever a fresh round into the rifle chamber without dropping his load of firewood, Sam hurried back toward the campsite. The firewood was too important to leave behind. When the wolves came back, as he knew they would, fire would be the only thing to hold them at bay throughout the night.
    Now it was time for him to take the upper hand and keep hold of it however he could, he told himself. Clutching the armload of precious firewood to his chest, he hurried back to where Dawson and the horse waited for him. But before he’d gone a hundred feet, Dawson met him on the darkening ledge, limping along toward him on his blood-smeared feet. Rain sprinkled in under the overhang as lightning flashed and stood as if suspended for a moment.
    â€œI—I heard your shot, Ranger,” Dawson said, gasping for breath, the battered pocket pistol clasped tight in his thick hand. “I came running.” He stared warily past Sam into the darkness along the ledge path. “Wolves, I figured?”
    â€œYou figured right,” Sam said. “Here, take this.” He held the armload of wood out for Dawson, who took it quickly. “I need to pull one up.”
    â€œHow many?” Dawson asked. He stacked the wood over into his arms, aware of its importance if they were going to stay alive through the