A Wolf in the Fold

Nothing ever happens in Okachula.

The last time anyone had to call the sheriff was to round up someone's runaway goats. The few tourists and winter residents were gone for the season, and the remaining population of the small Gulf coast town were an odd mix of artists, antique dealers, and rednecks that managed to get along fairly peaceably.

So Jack Randolph found it very odd indeed that there should be trouble at a closed-up antique store. Damn it, he thought to himself. He'd moved out here for peace and quiet to write. And now hoodlums were breaking storefront plate glass windows!

The sheriff pulled up, sirens wailing, as Jack walked down the street towards his pick-up, parked at a meter in front of the antique store. Sheriff Taylor climbed out of his car, saying, "Look out now, Jack. You don't want to go down there without a gun."

"What's the problem, sheriff?" asked Jack, irritably.

"Got a call. Somebody claims to have seen a huge wolf running around here, in the middle of town."

Jack laughed. "More likely to be a wild imagination than a wolf. There aren't any in Florida. Probably just someone's German shepherd that's got astray."

"Well, it wasn't imagination that broke that window," said the sheriff.

Jack frowned. He looked first at the window, then at the glass on the ground. "Look here, that window was broken from the inside."

The sheriff stepped closer. "You're right. So why would there be an animal breaking out of Tom Downey's Antiques?"

"That'd make more sense than breaking into the place--if it was an animal, which I doubt."

In reply, the sheriff picked up a piece of black fur off the window sill and handed it to Jack.

Jack inspected it. "Yes, that's animal, not human. But it could've come off a fur coat. Doesn't Downey sell antique lace and such? Couldn't it have been a human thief?"

"There's blood on some of these shards. I'll send the blood and fur to the lab up in Ocala."

"Well, if it's a wolf, I'll eat my hat--without salt." With those parting words, Jack got into his beat-up Dodge pickup. Before he drove off, he checked to make sure his pistol was still in his glove box. He'd never needed it, but it was good to know it was there.

Jack had only been living in Okachula for three years. Before coming here, he'd knocked about the world a bit. Seen a little of everything, done a little of everything. And it showed in his weather-beaten face, silvered hair, grizzled beard, and rugged build. His piercing blue eyes alertly scanned the scrub palmetto lining the dirt road to his house. Though he didn't believe that there was a wolf running around, he'd seen enough dead deer in the road--and enough deer-wrecked cars--to be extra careful at dusk. His habitual caution enabled him to swerve and slam on the brakes when an enormous, furry black creature ran out in front of his truck.

My God! he thought. It is a wolf!

The truck skidded on a patch of red clay mud, still damp from the afternoon storm. Jack thought he hit the animal a glancing blow with his rear bumper as the truck spun, so after it came to a halt he stuck his pistol in his jeans and got out to check.

As Jack came around to the rear of his truck, he saw the stunned animal struggling to its feet. It looked up sharply when it heard him, and snarled at him, eyes blazing. "Easy, boy," he said, in a low voice, moving slowly and smoothly, keeping his hand near his pistol. Jack felt the tense calm come over him that he always felt in dangerous situations--that sense of heightened consciousness outside of fear. He knew animals. He'd worked as a circus trainer for a few years, down near Gibsonton, after he'd returned to the U.S.

The wolf eyed Jack warily, hackles bristling, growling deep in its throat as it carefully backed away. Jack noticed it was limping badly on its right hind foot, and recognized the type of injury. A trap? he thought. What idiot is trapping around here? Oughtta be jailed for that. As he cautiously advanced, the wolf tried to back away further, then whined in pain when it misstepped. What am I doing? Jack wondered. But he knew. This animal was hurt, and it had to be lost from some zoo or circus, or maybe some damnfool thought it'd be a good idea to keep a wolf for a pet. Jack snorted in disgust, and the wolf, startled by the sound, tried to leap for his throat.

The leap was a failure, for the beast's right hind foot couldn't handle the effort. But Jack took no chances. At the first sign of the spring, he yanked out his pistol, and the wolf's head contacted the pistol-butt with an audible crack. The beast went down, solidly cold-cocked.

Jack shook his head. Now what? He couldn't leave it lying here. On the other hand, he didn't have any cages anymore. Sighing, he opened the back of his truck topper and dropped the tailgate. Then he knelt and lifted the wolf into the bed of the truck. God, the brute was heavy! He made sure all was secure, the climbed into the cab and drove home, wondering all the way what the devil he'd got himself in for.

As Jack drove up to his house, he wondered for the umpteenth time where he would put the animal. By now, he'd narrowed it down to two possibilities. One was the garage, which was a secure place with plenty of room. The trouble was there were just too many things that the critter could get into. Shelves full of tools and auto parts, various household projects he'd started and never finished, poisonous solvents . . . No, the garage wouldn't do. But Jack lived alone, and of the four bedrooms in his house, one was his bedroom, one was a spare bedroom, one was his study, and the last was a junk room full of boxes. It wouldn't matter if any of that stuff got messed up. If he'd needed it, it wouldn't be sitting there collecting dust. And it wasn't as if the wolf could hurt itself on anything there. So be it.

Jack looked through the rear window to make sure the wolf was still unconscious. It lay unmoving, but that was no guarantee. He watched it while he opened up the back, listening for any change in its breathing. No. It was down for the count. He carefully hefted the beast and took it inside. As he laid it down on the floor of the junk room, it began to stir. He left hastily, shutting the door. Then, remembering the window of the antique store, he went outside and secured the room's storm shutters.

When Jack went back inside, he went straight to the phone. His nearest neighbor (only half a mile away) was the town's veterinarian. He ought to have her take a look at the poor beast. When he called her house, though, her answering machine picked up, so he hung up and tried her clinic. Her answering service informed him she was gone.

"Where's she at?" He demanded irritably. Just like a woman to be out gallivanting when she's needed.

"I'm sorry, sir," replied the operator. "She's out at Ed Hurley's place. That mare of his went into labor half an hour ago. Would you like to leave a message?" "No that's all right. I'll catch up to her later." He dialed her house again and left a message this time. "Kate. Jack here. Come on over when you get a chance." Click. So much for that. He supposed the wolf should be awake by now, certainly thirsty, and probably hungry. So he went to the kitchen and fixed a bowl of water, then looked to see what he could feed it. No dog food: since ol' Preacher died last year, he'd given what he had left to Kate's clinic. Raw hamburger ought to do fine.

With his pistol back in his pocket, Jack went back to the junk room, bowls in each hand. He set the water dish down on the floor by the junk room door, tucked the food bowl into the crook of his arm to free up his left hand, and with his pistol in his right he carefully opened the door.

The wolf was standing there, watching intently. At the smell of the meat, it began salivating. Now came the tricky part. For a man to stoop in front of an animal like this was to go from a dominant posture to a submissive one. The wolf might attack. Without looking away from the animal, Jack carefully crouched and set the meat bowl on the floor. The wolf growled. Jack gently slid the dish toward it. Its ears pricked up, and it cautiously lowered its head to the meat, still eying Jack warily.

Jack moved backwards toward the door, and reached slowly back to pick up the water bowl. He placed it just inside the room, then stood up, backed out, and shut the door. He sighed with relief at his success. He was right. This was no wild wolf. It had eaten from a dish before. A wild one would be afraid of the bowl itself. Once Kate had a chance to treat its injuries, Jack could start trying to find out where the beast belonged.

Jack went into his office and began looking over a manuscript. Stupid editors. Didn't know a damn thing about anything, and still thought they ought to tell him what to write and how. He began angrily correcting the "corrections" marked on the manuscript, chewing his moustache in fury.

Suddenly Jack was distracted from his work by a loud crash. He jumped up and ran down the hall to see door of the junk room buckling as the wolf threw itself against the door. Swearing like a pirate, Jack started looking for things to barricade the door with. Next time I go in there, he thought, I'll take a trank gun. Then he remembered his tranquilizer darts were, naturally, in a box in the junk room, and he cursed again. Once the door was secured with several pieces of furniture, Jack returned to work. The bangs and thuds continued for some time before the beast either gave up or, more probably, knocked itself out. Dumb brute.

At last Jack, too, gave up. He felt as though he, like the wolf, had been beating himself against an immovable object. Time for bed--his editor would just have to wait.