Wesley Weyandt's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

The rain had come and gone before Wesley cleared the tree line, but the trail stayed wet under his boots. The shepherd moved ahead of him through the ferns, ears forward, that pale eye catching what little light came through the branches. Wesley kept the rifle across his chest. He had walked this ground as a boy. He did not remember it feeling this quiet. The dog stopped. Its hackles lifted in one slow ridge. Wesley followed its gaze and saw the wolf twenty paces off, black in the shadow, pale markings smeared across its flanks like handprints. It had already seen him. It was not running. He raised the rifle. He set the front sight on its chest and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a wet click. Nothing. The wolf's head lowered. Wesley's hands went cold. He broke the action, thumbed the shell out, and dug into his coat pocket. The shells were damp. He picked the driest one by feel. His fingers would not stop shaking. He fed the round into the chamber and closed the action. The wolf took one step forward. Then another. He thought of the porch. He thought of Katie in the break room at the hospital two towns over, handing him back the paper towel he had given her, saying she owed him one. He thought of the rented room where she was waiting for word that he had come home in one piece. His hands stopped shaking. He brought the rifle up. He breathed out. He fired. The shot cracked through the wet trees. The wolf dropped where it stood and did not move again. Wesley stayed where he was for a long moment, rifle still at his shoulder, waiting for it to get up. It did not. The shepherd walked to the body and sat beside it, calm as a witness at a signing. Wesley lowered the gun. His arms felt heavy. He crossed the ground and knelt. The wolf was bigger than he had expected. The pale markings were real, not a trick of the light. He would need help to carry it out. He thought about the reeve's office and the gold on the notice. Then he thought about the ninety days and the numbers that still did not match. The bounty would cover the tax. It would not cover the broken window, or the sagging rail, or the winter after that. He had bought himself the house. He had not yet bought the life inside it. He stood up. He looked at the shepherd. "I need a wagon," he said. "And I need to send word to somebody." The dog stood and started back toward the farmhouse. Wesley shouldered the rifle and followed. He had a body to move, a letter to write to Katie, and a porch to sit on when this was done.