The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss

before dropping in at dusty old Polecat Joe’s 1950s Pawnshop, an establishment that specialized in previously owned bone-handled pocket knives, sooty old Mexican silver, miscellaneous and sundry hand tools, vintage musical instruments, and, for those who don’t want to buy somebody else’s old junk—a selection of brand-new items. Scott Parris bought himself a pocket-worn Case stockman’s folding knife just like one he’d lost on Pigeon Creek some fifty-odd years ago. The Columbine Grass’s dexterous banjo player purchased a set of Nashville Special finger-picks for his nimble fingers.
    After the most fun they’d had in quite some time, the lawmen said a heartfelt adios to Pueblo and—
    But wait a minute. An honorable mention must be made of an incident (the most fun they’d had in quite some time) that, though of no great importance, did serve to add some spice and vinegar to their already dandy day.
    HELL - CAT HARLEY , SNAKE - EYE , AND SWEET MAURICE
    Right up front, it should be noted that the three scruffy thugs thudding along on matching black Harley-Davidson motorcycles were what you’d call new boys in town, and like so many of their ilk—they figured they were about to have their way in Pueblo. (Not all insane folk are in lunatic asylums.)
    These entrepreneurs had parked their pulsating bikes outside Polecat Joe’s profitable establishment with the intent of conducting some customary business—i.e., beating Joe’s head to a bloody pulp, emptying the semifamous pawnshop’s cash register, and roaring away with raucous wa-hoos! and shouts of “the Bad Black Wolf Pack has struck again!”
    With this stimulating adventure in mind, the uncouth youth were pleased to find only one vehicle parked out front. Charlie Moon’s wheels. (Polecat Joe, a U.S. marine Iraqi war vet who topped out at about five-seven in his GI boots, kept his black Hummer parked out back and a matched pair of loaded-for-bad-asses .44 Colt six-shooters holstered on his hips.)
    H-C Harley, self-appointed leader of the pack, eyed the Expedition’s Columbine Ranch logo and spat. “Anybody who’d paint a purple flower on his SUV is a damn sissy who drinks his beer through a straw!”
    Snake-Eye signified his agreement with a demented snicker.
    A slope-browed ape-man of few words, Sweet Maurice replied with 10 percent of his vocabulary: a heartfelt grunt.
    Cutting his Harley-Davidson’s ignition, Harley said, “Let’s go in and get it, brother Wolves.”
    As they entered the dimly lighted pawnshop, the pupils in the doped-up bikers’ eyes did not dilate appreciably behind their dark sunglasses, which may be one reason why the thugs made the potentially fatal error of picking a fight with an overweight, late-middle-aged white man, his skinny Indian friend—and the extremely dangerous proprietor behind the counter, whose round, little-boy face barely showed over the top of a glass case that was filled with antique carpenter’s tools.
    As it happened, Scott Parris, Charlie Moon, and Polecat Joe had noticed the sinister-looking trio the instant they pulled up in front of the pawnshop, where robberies were attempted by ignorant out-of-towners two or three times every year—most of whose carcasses were removed by unsympathetic emergency medical technicians, pronounced seriously deceased at the ER, then transferred to the morgue.
    The boss biker swaggered up to the counter to sneer at the proprietor. “I’m Hell-Cat Harley.” He jerked a thumb to draw attention to his sidekicks. “This here is Snake-Eye and that’s Sweet Maurice. We’re here to kick ass and take what we want.” He punctuated this announcement by spitting. On the counter .
    Parris rolled his eyes and whispered, “Here we go again.”
    The Ute neither moved nor said a word.
    His concealed hands itching on the ivory-handled butts of his