The old Studebaker wheezed into the river-bottom picnic ground, and I was out of the car before Dad had it parked.  There he was, sitting up straight in a lawn chair, under the old cottonwood he favored.  My great-great Uncle Simon, 94 years old, but with a mind as sharp as a man forty years his junior.  The big smile of welcome drew me to him as  I shot across the lumpy grass, skirting tables loaded with food, and avoiding the crowds of  family reunion strangers. 

"Hi, Uncle Simon, how ya doin'?" I asked as I skidded to a stop. 

"I figger I got a few more miles left in me yet, Paul.  How's my favorite nephew?"

"Great.  Dad said he’s going to teach me to drive this fall when I turn fourteen.  I hope so."  I sat down in the chair that for some reason no one had yet claimed.  "Got another story for me this year?"

The question, though I knew he expected it, seemed to stop him in mid-thought.  His clear gray eyes misted over ever so briefly, then took on a far-away look.  Dad encouraged me to talk with this frail old man, saying he’d learned more from him than from any other ten men combined that he might name.  Mom, on the other hand,  was never sure about it.

"Been saving this one for you,” he said after a minute or so.  “I thought you were too young last time, but maybe I better tell it now, just in case you don't come next year.  The story's about the same old feller I've been tellin' you about since you were a pup.”  He pointed to the northwest at the Lemhi Mountains.  “Took place over in them mountains, back in 1874."

He seemed to lose some of his frailness as he started to talk.  It was as though he were reading from a book.

*                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

 The man had been way up the creek that day, searching for a deer or maybe a mountain sheep.  It was late afternoon and he was on his way back to his sod-roofed dugout hut.  The frigid winter air sneaked past the fringe hair on his fur-trimmed hood.  It was wolverine fur, which’s the best because it won't collect frost.  He scrunched his shoulders to close the gap and the hood of his coat closed slightly.  He could hear his dog behind him, snuffling in the grainy snow.  The dog wanted to pass but that old mutt knew where he was supposed to be.  They still had well over a mile to go, and he was thankful the snow wasn't so deep he had to wear snowshoes.  Snowshoes can be a real pain in the ass when you're in a hurry.  The moose liver and heart in his tote sack were a comfort.  It had been nearly a week since he’d eaten any meat, and it was starting to show.  The man could feel he was getting weaker.  Eating only rendered moose fat and cornmeal, of which he had plenty, would keep him alive, but just so.

 He adjusted his pack with a shrug and recalled the afternoon of only a few hours before.  The mountain spirits had really been with him.  The sleek cow had simply risen from her bed in a willow grove as he was standing, catching his breath.  He’d put one shot right through her neck and she’d dropped without a sound.  He hated to shoot a moose.  Getting one gutted is a real chore when you're alone, but he'd been desperate.  Over an hour was spent getting her innards out, blood up to his elbows.  Now that's a sticky, miserable mess when it's clear and cold like that.  Then he’d worked another hour getting her cut up into quarters and the meat stashed in some rocks.  He’d be back in the morning and figgered it would be safe enough.

He was brought back to the present as another jolt of icy air passed his bristled cheek and chilled the sweat on his neck.  He gave another shoulder hunch to cut off the flow.  He could feel it was getting colder fast, the kind of cold that’s deadly.  That made him hurry his steps a little, and his faithful dog kept pace.

The ravine he was walking in narrowed suddenly.  One minute it was a long rifle-shot wide, the next it was only fifteen yards or so.  The trail snaked dangerously close to the creek.  He couldn't see it, but he could hear it under the snow.  He had to be careful.  If he fell through the ice and into the water, he’d have a serious problem being that far from home.  He stopped and looked back to see where the dog was.  He saw him a ways back, head down, with his nose in a bush.  His tail, arched over his back, meant he’d found something interesting.  The man smiled, then continued to pick his way carefully and slowly along that narrow path.  A sigh of relief came as the creek bottom opened up again.  It wasn't that far now.

He sensed rather than heard or saw the attacking animal.  The short hairs on his neck bristled, and he felt the tingle in his groin that's a sure warning of extreme danger.  The beast hit him in the back with such ferocity he was momentarily stunned.  It leapt onto the meat-filled sack and held on, its back feet digging into the man's legs.  The snarling, coughing grunt of his attacker, and the ripping pain in his left leg cleared his head, snapping him back to reality.  Claws, sharp as an awl, tore his wool pants as they dug in to hang on.  The smell hit him then, and he knew he was going to fight for his life.  It was a stinking wolverine!  The animal sank its teeth into the fresh meat and the taste of blood fueled the frenzy of the attack. 

The man shook off his mittens and jerked at his rifle's shoulder strap, trying to free the Winchester and get it round front where he could put his hands on it.  Finally, it came loose, and he seized the rifle, left hand on the grip, right on the barrel.  He jabbed the butt behind his left hip as hard as he could, once, twice, three times; each blow met solid muscle and each blow made the wolverine grunt.  The fourth strike drove the curved butt-plate deep and he heard a bone snap.  With a snarl the wolverine let go of the pack and dropped to the ground. 

As he started to turn around, he saw out of the corner of his eye the flat, ugly head and wide body of the beast.  In the time it takes to think it, the animal pressed the attack again, boring in as the man moved.  In an instant, it had its yellow teeth clamped on the calf of his leg, narrowly missing the bone, but securely set in the flesh.  Up came the butt of the rifle, and as it came down he saw a flash of color that told him his dog had joined the fray.  Canine teeth snapped shut on the wolverine's ass and balls, and at the same time the butt of the Winchester came crashing down on the varmint's head. 

It tore its teeth loose from the man's leg and seemed to turn in its skin to face the dog.  Powerful jaws clamped down on the dog’s paw, and with a blinding quick turn, the beast ripped half of it off.  The parting tendons made a wet snapping sound as they gave way.  With an agonized howl, the dog let go, stunned.  He reared back, but not before a vicious slap ripped into his shoulder.  The wolverine backed away as well, ready to charge again.

The pause in the fight lasted only fractions of a second, but to the man, it seemed to last forever, dreamlike.  Already the stock of the Winchester was ascending, the man gripping the barrel with both hands.  High over his head it went as he stretched full height and then, descended.  Slowly, so slowly it came down, the steel and brass glinting in the late sun, the light scribing a deadly arc that would meet the wolverine.  The back of the heavy, steel action crashed down.  The man saw the hammer spur disappear into the top of the flat, dark triangle that was the animal's head.  A spray of dark red fanned out, and the sickening yet satisfying crunch of live bone being crushed announced the wolverine's defeat.  The beast screamed defiance with one last spitting snarl of rage.  Blood flew all over the wounded dog, and the wolverine sagged to the ground, dead.  

He laid his rifle in the brush, and went to his dog.  The glistening white of exposed bone was an insult.  Bright blood flowed from the dog’s neck, staining an ever-widening blotch on the torn up trail.  The dog licked furiously at the wounded foot, trying to keep it clean, but failing.  As the man looked down, the pain in his legs reminded him that he, too, was pretty torn up.  His left leg hurt like hell.  He struggled to see it around the bulk of his coat but he couldn't, and as cold as it was he didn't dare take it off.  He looked down at the dog again.  The poor thing whined softly and worked to stem the flow.  Then, suddenly, he just quit, looked up at the man with a final question in his eyes, and laid his head down in the snow.  The man knelt beside his loyal friend and stroked him gently.  He was heartbroken.  That good dog had saved him a half dozen times, from bears and wolves, and from other men meaning no good.  What could he do for the poor animal?  Weak as he was, he couldn't carry him, and he felt he was letting the dog down in the most terrible way.  Tears froze on the man's cheeks as he hung his head and wept. 

Struggling to his feet, he moved to his rifle and picked it up.  He wondered if he should use a precious cartridge.  The cold was settling fast and what little warmth the dog had was leaking out on the ground.  The man looked down at his companion.  Did he see understanding in those soft brown eyes?  The dog's mouth opened a little, and his tongue moved ever so slightly through his teeth.  His tail twitched in one final wag, and then his eyes shut.  The ache that had been moving up in the man's throat come out as a sudden sob, causing his shoulders to convulse.  His head dropped, his spirit failing rapidly as the motionless dog shimmered in his tear-filled eyes.

The man turned in the trail and picked up one of his mittens, then searched a minute for the other before he found it.  He pulled them on and started the long journey to his home.  He would not remember when, but he threw off the backpack, too heavy to carry, no thought about the meat.  He wouldn't remember how many times he slipped and fell as his left leg refused to respond.  The Winchester became his crutch, frozen to his hand, the mitten discarded to give him a better grip.  But finally, he found the perfectly matched pair of spruce trees that flanked his little house, and floundered the last hundred yards, more on his knees than his feet.

He opened the crude door, pushed back the overlapping hides that hung on the inside and entered.  In a daze, he struggled to reset the hides that closed off the frigid air.  He turned back the heavy buffalo robes, and sat down on the edge of the rawhide-sprung bed.  As he wearily lay back, the stiff leather stretched slightly, squawking.  Then, his sight darkened as he slipped into a fitful slumber. 

Terrible sounds and images filled his dreams.  He imagined himself bleeding to death when the blood soaked wool of his pants thawed out.  He wondered how long he would last without food.  He tried to remember what he had done with the pack but couldn’t recall; he was so confused.  And then he saw his dog, lying in the snow, abandoned.  Was that a wolf he saw, coming to tear the flesh of his friend?  He saw his dog, helpless and weak, terrified eyes wide open, beseeching him.  That wonderful, faithful friend; abandoned when he needed help the most.  His mind nearly left him as those fearful thoughts and images swirled hotly in his brain.  His very soul was in torment.  Then, his sight went completely black and he slipped into a deep sleep.  For several days the man lay in bed.  Fever took him to places uncharted, and gripping chills shook his body until his muscles quit responding.

When he woke up, his first conscious thought was the pleasure of seeing light.  His second feeling was more physical, a mouth so dry his tongue would barely move.  He had to have water soon.  His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the light as he looked around the room.  The hides over the door were in place, frosty but closed, and there was his rifle, leaning against the table.  He finally saw what he was looking for, the water bucket.  Had he left it full?  He hoped so.  Could he get up and get it?  He twitched his toes in his boots and flexed his ankles as he did a mental and muscular search of his body.  Everything seemed to work okay.  He flexed the muscles in his left leg and was rewarded by a sharp pain.  His hands functioned well enough too, but the right one had a couple of fingers that didn't look so good, purple and puffy.  The things that needed to move, did, but he was stiff as hell and sore everywhere.  Slowly, he started to uncover, the heavy robes next to his body, damp.  As the chilled air crept under the covers he reconsidered, maybe it was colder than he thought.  He gritted his teeth and raised his head, grunting at the pain. 

Then, he heard a sound from across the room, clear and distinct.  It assaulted his fragile sense of security.  Something was in the room with him.  Had that filthy thing followed him home?  No!  He’d killed it!  Disappointment swept over him like a damp cloud.  His head sank back onto the beaver-pelt pillow.  Eyes closed so tight his eyebrows met, he raged silently at the injustice.  He was defenseless.  Then he remembered his knife!  He had his belt knife.  He was sure of it.  He frantically searched for it, going over his body at the waist, he felt for the big pigsticker.  And found it!  Smack in the middle of his back.  He wondered how fast could he move?  Fast enough?  He sucked in a deep gulp of air as his hand gripped the handle of the knife.

He felt the hot wetness of the beast’s breath as it went for his neck.  His muscles sprung tight as he tried to bring the long knife to bear.  It stuck in the thick wool of the robe.  He instinctively raised his shoulders and tucked his head.  Then, a soft warm tongue mopped days-old, dry, sweat-salt from his cheek.  Spud!  It was his dog, Spud.  The man’s eyes flashed open and his head snapped to the side.  He looked into the mellow brown eyes of his dog and felt the warm smooth tongue make another swipe across his face.  The dog's tail whipped back and forth, his butt moving in time with it.  He wagged it so hard his three legs wouldn’t steady him, and he sat down.  The man pushed himself up on his elbows, and ignoring the pain, swung his legs from under the robes, to sit dizzily on edge of the bed.  He took the dog's head in his swollen hands and tears splashed with abandon on his friend's muzzle.  How had the dog made it home?  It was a miracle.  Convulsive sobs racked the man's body as he held his beloved dog and whispered a short prayer.  Both he and the dog were thankful for each other.  For different reasons to be sure, but at that moment, the reasons didn’t matter at all. 

*                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

"Take this from the story if nothing else, Paul," Uncle Simon said,  "Compared to the soul, the pain of the flesh is trivial.  Lying in that bed, the man had learned that there are even shades of black, and he’d seen the darkest when he betrayed the only creature who had never let him down.  And the Old Man who runs this place gave him another chance, something that’s never guaranteed.  Old  Simon and Spud were still alive, and we saw many another spring together."

His old body sagged--- no, it didn't sag, it relaxed, as though some story that needed telling had just been told.  He looked at me and then glanced over at the crowd of people who sat or stood around the picnic tables. 

"I think your mother's wanting you to come over," he said, nodding toward her.

I turned, and sure enough there was Mom, hands on hips, looking at us. 

"I'll be right back.  You want something to eat?"

"No, not much appetite left now-days.  You go ahead.  I'll just sit here."

I went over to the tables and grabbed a plate.  My mother looked at me and then at Uncle Simon.  "I suppose he got to telling you those wild tales again?" she said.  “Now I want you to pay attention to some of your cousins and folks." 

She turned to greet some woman, obviously a relative, but one whom I had no recollection of ever meeting.  When I just stood there, she turned back to me, her eyebrows arched in a question.

"Okay, Mom, but can I hear just one more story from Uncle Simon.  Please?"

"Oh, won't he ever stop talking?" she said.  She frowned at the old man, but then nodded assent.

I looked at Uncle Simon, his head leaned on his chest, apparently snoozing.  Then the terrible thought struck me for the first time, and tears spurted from my eyes.