The Return

Anger of a type I had never known burned hot within me. I felt as though I were teetering upon the brink of madness. My tormentor had returned and robbed me once again of all my food. The brutal winds of January blew bitter and hard round about me. Occasional pockets of loose snow were hurled into the air and stung my eyes like tiny shards of glass.

The moment had now arrived.

I would enter into battle with this beast--or die in the trying. The remainder of the jerked meat would last possibly three days. After that, I would be completely destitute of food. I could melt snow for drinking water. Inside my house, I dressed myself in the warmest clothing I had--layer upon layer.

I gave most of my attention to my weapons. The musket would not be useful on this quest. My rifle was the only weapon with the range and capability to achieve my goal of destroying this dog of hell’s creation. I placed all of the rifle balls I had left into my leather ammunition pouch--fifteen in all. I filled my powder horn to the fullest and re-supplied the rifle’s patchbox with wadding. Pulling a warm yet very unfashionable beaver hat upon my head, I took rifle in hand, placed my knife in its sheath, and strode out the door.

It was in that most chilling of winters, January, 1816, that I, Thomas McBane, set out to bring an end to the day of the wolf--or perhaps--my own demise awaited me. Either way, I would not return to my house unless my task was complete.

The end of December brought warm winds from the west that began to melt the upper layer of snow. When the freezing winds of the north came upon the land in January, it re-froze the snow making a hard crust. I was able to walk upon the snow without breaking through. This enabled me to cover large areas with relative ease.

As I walked, I began to question God. I wondered aloud why He would allow such misfortune to befall me. I searched for the possible rationale behind my suffering. I could find none. There were times that I found it difficult to believe that God could even be concerned about one such as I. A man--alone on the prairie--a fool reaping a fool’s reward. When I first arrived, I was certain that the hand of providence had guided me to this land. Now, I was certain of nothing.

I looked behind me as I walked every few steps. If the wolf were to my rear it would not escape my attention. I moved slowly, studying the snow and the terrain for any sign. Discovering tracks, I studied them carefully. Obviously not fresh, I thought them to be about a week old. They were most definitely the tracks of the wolf. I had come to know his tracks as well as the contours of my own flesh.

Convinced that the wolf was as yet unaware of my presence, I believed these tracks might lead me to his lair. I began to follow them feeling as though the upper hand belonged to me. Prey had become predator.

The grip on my rifle tightened as my lips began to crack in the cold. I tried to stagger my breathing as the cold air made my lungs ache. The sun shone through a partly cloudy sky. Sparse willow thickets jutted out from the snow covered rolling hills. I crossed a frozen stream that lay before a bluff. Looking up, I thought I saw movement upon the ridge. Taking cover, I dashed behind a cluster of willows, hoping the branches would conceal me from sight.

I fixed my eyes upon that ridge and waited. Two hours passed without a sign of movement. Somehow I knew within myself that if I waited, here, I would finally get a look at the wolf that I now believed to be half ghost. Another hour passed. To my left, a gopher ran about on the snow searching for food. Since I sat motionless, it seemed unaware of my presence. Running within two feet of me, I twitched my leg. The gopher bounded off in the opposite direction as if it had been scalded.

I continued to scan the ridge for movement. The sun was beginning its descent and the sky glowed a mixture of red and orange. Suddenly, atop the ridge, I could make out the silhouette of a standing wolf. At last! After all this time, I finally had a look at my tormentor! He stood bold upon the ridge--surveying the valley that lay before him.

I watched him for several minutes. Then I slowly raised my rifle for the shot that would terminate my suffering. Resting the barrel of the longrifle on the branch of a willow, I focused my sights on the wolf. Exhaling slowly, I squeezed the trigger of the rifle ever so softly. The report of the gun startled me when it went off. When the smoke from my shot cleared, I could see nothing upon the ridge.

Missed?! How could I have possibly missed? If ever a shot had been well aimed and timed it was this one! I refused to believe that my shot had not hit its mark. I quickly re-loaded my rifle and ran toward the bluff. Making my way around the side of the hill, I found a path that would lead me upward. I bounded toward the top, my feet crashing through the packed snow about every third step. When I reached the ridge, I saw nothing--except tracks. No blood. Apparently I had not even managed to wound the beast.

I had never known despair like this. I sat upon the hard snow and looked at the tracks, unable to believe the wolf was still out there…somewhere.

The next day brought bright sunshine and a clear sky. The barely blowing wind is a rarity in this country. Outside, the air remained frigid to say the least. Nevertheless, it would be a good day to continue the hunt for larger game.

I walked about a mile away from my house, to an area of small rolling hills. Atop one of the hills, I was afforded a great view of the river valley. I would spot any game coming into the area immediately. I burrowed into the snow to keep warm. I also hoped to get a look at my tormentor the wolf. The beast couldn’t stay hidden forever.

After some time had passed, I saw no game large or small. I had a two day supply of food at best. My plight was becoming desperate. A realization came over me that the presence of a wolf in this area would frighten away game such as elk or deer. At that moment, it became even more imperative that I find this devil’s dog and rid the prairie of its cursed existence.

Walking back to my sod house, I took my hatchet in hand and walked to the frozen river. After cutting a hole in the ice, I set a rig over the hole with line and a hook tied to it. Using a small piece of meat as bait, I covered the hole with grass and started back to the soddie to warm up. Twenty yards from the house, in the shallow snow, once again I could see them. Wolf tracks. This beast moves with the elusiveness of a ghost.

Knowing that tracking the wolf would be all but futility, I stepped inside my house and began warming up. I loaded both my musket and rifle, to have them ready when needed. I removed the flint out of each weapon and reshaped them and clamped them back into place. I needed to be certain that the weapons would not misfire when the time came.

I sharpened my knife with great care--slow and deliberate strokes. Nothing would be left to chance in my quest to bring an end to this diabolical beast.

The Day of the Wolf

The fall of 1815 brought with it the coldest air I had ever breathed. My skill with my rifle had afforded me many opportunities to trade with the Sioux tribe. It would require much firewood and many buffalo hides to stay warm during what was certain to be a winter colder than anything I had known before.

I learned to make signs with the Indians which enabled me to communicate with them to a small degree. I shared my meat with them when I killed buffalo. I traded meat and hides for things like moccasins, corn, and fuel for the impending winter. Their distrust of me was obvious--despite my efforts to befriend the Sioux, they only traded with me out of necessity. I learned over time that some of the Sioux had begun referring to me as “Firestick.” It pleased me to know that they thought enough of me to at least give me a name.

The first snowfall came in early November. Heaving blankets of snow covered the entire prairie in a matter of mere hours. The wind blew across the land in a most unforgiving way. I battled the invasion of drifting snow constantly to keep my sod house from being buried by the onslaught. By the middle of November, the drifts were at least four feet deep. This enabled me to store the meat I had killed. I buried the meat in snow banks and it remained unspoiled for long periods of time. That was, until the thief arrived.

Stepping out of my sod house, I saw the tracks for the first time, indicating that a large wolf was in the area. Every piece of meat that I had buried was now gone. “Cursed devil!” I exclaimed. Trudging through deep snow, I returned to the soddie to get my rifle. Securing a pair of Indian made snowshoes to my feet, I set about to bring an end to this intruder, once and for all.

I followed the tracks for three hours. The beast was nothing if not crafty and wise. He walked in long sweeping circles, trying to disorient me. Tracking him until it was nearly dark, I made my way back to the soddie. The robber of my food supply eluded me all the day.

When the morrow was fully come, I prepared myself to hunt for the day. The dried meat inside the soddie would not last long. I had to secure a store of meat if I were to make it through the harsh winter. Outside the wind blew strong and bitter. The fallen snow once again carried back into the air. The entire landscape gleamed pure white. The blowing snow and fog would make it easy to become lost. I noticed that the wind formed pointed ridges in the snow that bore witness to its direction. If I were to become disoriented, I could read these “snow ridges” and find my way.

Burrowing my way into the snow bank adjacent to the river bottom, I lay motionless awaiting any sign of wild game, my breath making clouds in the freezing air. I wore a pair of Sioux moccasins that I obtained during trading a month earlier. They laced up all the way to my knees and were quite warm. They were crafted with an artisan’s skill the like of which I had never seen before. The Indians are most certainly an industrious and creative people. I made a buffalo hide coat for myself that I was rather proud of. It lacked the skillful appearance of the Indian garb--yet functioned very well at keeping me warm. The rest of my clothing and a hat and mittens were obtained during trading at the post in Pembina--a five day ride from the Devil’s Lake.

After an hour had passed, I saw a gray rabbit bounding across the frozen river. I quickly shouldered my musket and fired. The rabbit clung to life for a brief moment, then succumbed to its fate and died. I reloaded the musket with another measure of shot, and waited. Moments later, two more rabbits began their journey across the river. My shot ended the life of the larger one. With two rabbits to my credit, I made my way back to the soddie. Just as I was about to open the door, I saw the tracks again.

It appeared that this wolf had circled my house several times--obviously searching for food. Judging by the scratch marks on my door, this wolf had even tried to gain entrance to my house. Anger burned within me.

I began to feel mocked by this intruding wolf--as though he wanted me aware of his presence. As though he were trying to put my nerves on edge. I opened the door to the sod house and set the rabbits on my table. I placed the musket on its rack and grabbed my rifle. Loading the rifle with an extra thimble of powder, I shut my door securely and once again began tracking the wolf.

I followed the sweeping circles carefully--alert to any sound I could hear. After an hour of this, I noticed fresh tracks in the snow behind me. This wolf of hell’s creation was tracking me! I doubled back toward the soddie, studying the tracks along the way. The wolf had gotten as close as ten feet behind me and I never knew it was there.

This wolf possessed a measure of intelligence beyond anything I had ever seen. It was clear to me that the beast was intent on my demise. I secured myself inside the soddie, cleaning and skinning my rabbits. With that task completed, I roasted the meat over my fire and ate with the apprehension of a man who might possibly be ambushed at any moment.