The Wolf Road by Beth Lewis

gentle-like I ran my shaking fingers up my arms, trying to fight the hurt. I washed off the blood and salt, cleaned up the cuts. The stinging eased slow and I ducked my head under to get the blood out my hair. I couldn’t right tell you the last time I had a bath. Didn’t much like ’em, seemed to take too long when I could a’ been setting traps or chopping wood. Quick rinse in the river once a fortnight was all I needed, though I confess I did take a few minutes more in that trough than was strictly necessary. When I got out, dripping and shivering, the water was red and I said my apologies to the cattle.
    “Though it is most your rancher’s blood,” I said after thinking ’bout it for a second, “and he done killed a whole lot of you in his time. Drink him up and piss him out.”

    Felt fresh blood trickling down my back, mixing up with the water, as I went back into the homestead. I found that crazy fucker’s bedroom and tore up one a’ his soft linen sheets. Made rough bandages and had a hell of a time getting them to fix. Ever tried to wrap up your back with trembling hands? It’s a crapshoot. Once I got them to stay, the pain eased up and I weren’t worried no more ’bout getting blood all in my coats. Left that room red as the basement and didn’t give two shits ’bout it.
    I got my clothes and a few cans out the basement, quick saw boot prints in the red mud, making circles ’round the table and I didn’t fancy staying down there with them and dead Matthews any longer’n I had to. Found a backpack and filled it with them cans, few carrots and a bunch a’ them nice silver spoons. Found myself a tinder box gathering dust and let out a whoop a’ joy. It had one of them nice metal rods with a flat striker, few bits a’ wool and a fat strip a’ wax paper. All kinds a’ useful. I know stealing is one of them human rules you don’t break, but then so is murdering and Matthews was fixing to break that first.
    I got out that homestead just as night was falling. I’d been in them walls half a day but my life had changed so much in them few hours. Lyon weren’t just after Kreagar; she had me in her sights and she was closing in. Them words, Think on why I ain’t killing you , swirled ’round in my head, mixing up with pictures a’ Lyon and Matthews and Kreagar, confusing me and putting cold fear in my chest the whole walk to the forest. Soon as I got in them trees the swirling stopped. Smell a’ mulch and bark and pine and dirt filled me up and calmed me down. I was in the wild and there weren’t no way Lyon or Kreagar or no one else was going to find me again.

For a month, I didn’t see hide nor hair of any other person. My life in them days leading to winter was walking, hunting, sleeping, walking. To tell the truth I was getting sick a’ walking. The snow was crawling down from the mountains in fat drifts and some mornings I woke up with a dusting a’ white around me. I kept the reverend’s cuts clean when I could, last thing I needed was my blood going rotten, but the sticky itching was burning up my back something awful and I weren’t nowhere close to a doctor. Not that I put much stock in their potions and tonics. Trapper said doctors were crooks ready to fleece you for a cup of whisky. He said they made you sicker so they could keep you coming back lining their pockets with coin. But when Trapper cut his hand and it went all yellow and wet and puffed up like a mushroom ’bout to spore, he was crying and whining like a weakling child. He was begging for the doctor to cure him and at the same time roaring at me for taking him to town in the first place.
    Sickness makes babes and bastards of us all. I had no intention of letting my back go bad but it was headed that way. You can cut off a sickly hand, or least cut out the bad meat, but you can’t be cutting off your arms and back. I figured I had to stop all the walking and make myself a proper situation.
    I knew where the road was but