The Wolf versus the Trapper

  Kaplan watched through her long scope, covered up by her leather cape to protect her eyesight from the weather. She squinted to see Corris Lee standing ten yards from Paul Jacob—the standoff they both wanted. Kaplan’s finger lightly touched the trigger, waiting for the prime shot to end this fight before it began. She could hit the bastard right between the eyes, she thought, if he wasn't wearing that camouflage hood that obscured his bearded face.

  She sized up the two men. First, the Grimsby kin: maybe six feet six inches tall, swarthy, long-limbed, muscles taut like piano wire. He didn't wear boots but handmade moccasins. A six-shooter glinted on his belt, still holstered. Kaplan saw the two men were talking. About what? Bravado? Witty banter? Get this over with, Corris Lee. What are you waiting for? she grumbled to herself.

  Corris Lee, on the other hand, was not nearly as tall, six feet two inches. Yet he had size—a very strong build, 264 lbs of muscle with great physical distribution across his body. Battle scared face and body. His duster flailed wildly in the windswept crevice, revealing his two six-shooters. A gift from Judge Nagy himself, specially commissioned for the black man. The one on his right hip was the King-breaker, the one adding to the Corris Lee legend. It was an impressive handcannon more than it was a revolver, the same gun he allegedly used to take down the notorious cannibal of Red Mesa, Caliban.

  “You know, Corris. For a nigger, I loved you like a brother. You ain't like tha othas. You ain't all peaceful like.”

  “Well, who would have known? Paul Grimsby. Negro lover.”

  "What? What's that mean?"

  "Enid, your mother. She kept you a little too long on her apron strings. After she made sure I ate before you. Your ma was a negro lover."

  The rage in Paul Jacob darkened his eyes red as he charged Corris, leaping over a large rock that suddenly landed in front of him. His knife shone under the blue moonlight. Corris slid his blade from its sheath to meet him in the middle. Paul Jacob reached him far sooner than he expected, as did his blade. He sliced across Corris’s face, narrowly missing his eye before Corris stomped him in the chest, sending him hurling backwards.

  Blood rushed through Corris’s veins. His lungs filled with oxygen. His vision narrowed, centering on Paul Jacob rolling sideways to his feet—an agile son of a bitch. Corris waited for him to get his bearings. No need to push the pace of this fight on the land Paul hunts. Where Paul stepped, Corris stepped. Who knew how many traps Paul had rigged for situations like this?

  Paul Jacob bared his rotten, black teeth like a rabies-infected dog. Corris did the same, showing his canines. Wolves show their teeth when they want to convey their intent. Unlike dogs that bark. Paul Jacob threw another wide arching knife swipe. Corris ducked under it easily, which was the first problem. Why throw such an off-balance strike? To sucker Corris into reacting to a well-deserved knee to the chest. The powerful knee drove the air from Corris’s lungs. He gasped. Paul Jacob followed it up by crashing his left forearm into Corris’s face. The blow buckled him. His world sharply went black for a second. The smell of Paul’s buckskin pants gave Corris the depth perception he needed to bury his knife in Paul’s thigh. He ducked instinctively, jabbing his hand into Paul’s battle plate vest, shoving him back with all his might. Never letting go of his knife, it dragged, slicing into the muscle. Warm, tasty blood splashed on Corris’s hand. The ripe scent of iron matched the hard thumping of Paul Jacob’s heart, racing from the pain. Corris’s own heart joined the chorus when he heard a gunshot, then felt a hot burning sensation in his abdomen.

  “Bastard shot me.”

  The second shot burned by his waist. They both stumbled backwards. Paul crouched like an injured dog, his left leg pulsing blood. Corris watched him douse his leg in gunpowder then strike a rock against it. Rain or not, the spark flashed like a dynamite line. Paul howled from the agony. Corris almost bit his tongue off when the slippery heathen got another shot off. He allowed the burning flame in his gut to crumple him to the ground, hoping Paul Jacob's shot was wide. It wasn't in the cards. Corris felt his left shoulder go limp from the bullet tearing through him. He got to smell the sweet hint of his burnt flesh before the wind took it away.

  Corris heard a wolf howl in the distance—loud, ferocious, calling out to the pack. Storm or not, the pack is always hungry. Two men waging war, spilling their blood, was too tempting to pass up. The death clock started for both of them. Corris had one ace up his sleeve: Kaplan.

  The storm commenced to swallow Kamen's Gulch in its maw, biting down with frequent lightning strikes and air-cracking thunder. Kaplan lost all visibility of Corris and Paul Jacob. She heard the shots. She just couldn't capitalize on the report to locate the trapper. The storm made that impossible at the moment. Her heart raced nonstop with the thought of Corris Lee being gunned down, leaving her alone against the most disciplined of the Grimsby family.

  ”If I leave my perch, I will be cut down in the process. If I stay, I have a chance to see Paul Jacob exit the gulch. That's my best play here. C'mon, Corris. Give me something to work with.”

  Kaplan remained still. She didn't budge amidst the raging storm around her.

  Round 2

  “Here Corris, Corris, Corris—Come out, come out, wherever you are? You still alive out there, boy?”

  “Yeah, thanks to your shit shooting.”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Corris struggled to his feet from shock. He flexed his left hand, forcing blood to circulate. His flesh started stitching to stop the blood. The burning pain soon subsided in his shoulder. He clenched his teeth against his stomach wound. His muscles convulsed; he could feel the bullet aggravating his insides. That stoked his furnace. He snarled. Paul Jacob was faster than he remembered. Corris looked at his blood-soaked shirt. Lightning streaked in the sky when he saw a shadow out of his peripheral. It was Paul Jacob leaping toward me. His knife held high to plunge in my head.

  “I surged forward to meet him in the air. I slipped my hands up in his coat. Pulling his

  duster's inner belt, detaching his cape that expanded open, flying behind him, followed by muffled cries as he sailed backwards from the harsh winds in the gulch. The distraction was enough. I rolled ahead, getting in a position grab Paul Jacob’s knife with a strong disarm. It bounced and skittered away on the rock floor.

  Paul screamed in frustration as he landed to the ground a few feet away. “You asshole, that's my favorite knife!” Paul growled through black breath—diseased, black breath. I smelled the plague on him. The disgusting formaldehyde and raw cinnamon scent burned my nostrils.”

  I could see he was frustrated. So when Paul Jacob pulled his pistol again and started firing. I rolled to the left. Getting me closer to a closed mine entrance.The raw cinnamon smell hit me hard from a crude, boarded-up mine face. It saved my skin when i crashed headlong into it. Nearly breaking the barrier into wet kindling. Paul Jacob cursed when I heard his cylinder run dry.

  I placed my hand on my wet shirt. Pulling it away to see me bleeding badly. Then came the familiar emotion of fear. An emotion I hadn't in felt years. When I was a wild man. Trapped in a cage. It was Abby who helped me grasp the truth on fear. What it means to be afraid for your life type fear. The weakness and paralyzing state of fear. That's when I heard Abby's voice in my ear.

  "The fear of man proves to be a snare, but whoever puts his trust in Yahweh is kept safe. Proverbs 29:25."

  "Fear is like a beast, Corris. Born from man's anxiety and loss of control of his life, his circumstances. Deeply connected to man facing the unknown with darkness in his heart. That is why we place our trust wholly in God to provide for us."

  "Why would I place my faith in a white Savior? I've seen what the great white Jesus has done. First hand."

  "No, Corris, Jesus is an Israelite from the Line of David. He is Jewish, not white. Your skin color isn't the problem. He is concerned about your heart and the repentance of your sins against Him. Haven't you ever regretted a decision you made that consumed your conscience?"

  "Ha, ha, that's like asking the Wolf if he feels guilty for killing the deer?"

  "Nice try, but not in that context. Animals are clean. Humans are not. Let's focus back to the first part of the text. The snare of man proves to be a snare. Remember what I told you snare meant in Hebrew?"

  "M?qêsh. Like setting a trap?"

  "Close. It means bait."

  Of course, bait. Thanks, Abby

  I had allowed the trapper's reputation to tenderfoot him, making him dance to a bad church tune on a hot Sunday. And I had be playing up to who he is. He got two shots off and me at a disadvantage. Like Marshal Evans. I was waiting for a good spot and I am bleeding out for it. Time to switch this up before I am on his dinner table. I needed to bait him. He couldn't stand the fact that I came hunting for him. His family raised me when I was captured as a wild man. His ma took pity on me by feeding me with the animals. I wasn't raised to be cattle. Her merciful hand allowed me to be here. Right now.

  “Corris, who taught you how to fight?”

  “You're mother did.”

  “What you say?”

  “That bitch of a mother. Ma Grimsby? She tried her best to show me love. Me being a black man and all. There were times she used complain to me about your failures as a son.”

  “Ma was proud of me.”

  “She thought you were queer or something. No grandkids. She actually asked me if could give her grand babies if given a chance.”

  “You lying black bastard.”

  “Can ya imagine ya Ma wanted children from me. She wanted to breed with me because you couldn't…”

  “DAMN YOU TO HELL, CORRIS LEE!”

  I needed to bait Paul Jacob into losing focus. He had me trapped. He did what I had hoped. He didn't rush me. He let his anger boil over. Contrary to gruesome reputation. Paul Jacob is a hit and run fighter. As impressive as he is physically. He relied on his skills to fight from the shadows. I heard the Grimsby brother quickly flip his pistol open to reload. Those mongrels didn't suffer anyone spitting on their lineage. For sure Paul Jacob wasn't going to let me do it when I was in arm's reach. When the last bullet plunged in the cylinder, I lunged around the mine's entrance.

  Keeping himself away from fire, but close enough to grab Paul’s barrel. Yanking it down. Spilling bullets from the pistol’s cylinder. They rattled to the ground. Plopping in the red mud. Paul Jacob should have let go if his blood wasn't boiling. Anger caused him to hang on to his pistol, rather than giving up his best move: to reposition and reassess his attack at a safe distance. I could see the shine of several knife hilts. The blades sheathed for immediate use. That was then. Now he had me face-to-face to contend with.

  With his gun firmly in my hand, I chopped him across the throat with my left hand. Paul still didn't let go. So I turned the heat up with a crushing elbow to Paul’s nose. It took two bone-cracking hits to break his nose. Blood spurted from Paul Jacob’s nose and mouth. Paul Jacob wailed in pain, finally letting go of the pistol. That was my window. I grabbed hold of Paul Jacob's duster. A strong handle on his jacket collars, then began to ram my forehead into Paul’s face. One. Two. Three times in a row. The sound of Paul’s eye socket and cheek bone breaking was satisfying.

  Paul gargled blood as he struggled to breathe from the onrush of blood down his throat. A broken nose is nothing to play with. I could see the whites of Paul Jacob's wild, desperate eyes. Looking around frantically. The feeling of drowning in one's own blood is truly terrifying. I kept working the man. This time to cripple him by stomping my heavy boot into Paul’s knee. Folding it inward the wrong way with a gruesome crack. Paul cried out again. I savored that sound.

  “IS THAT HOW ASHER SOUNDED? WHEN YOU RAVAGED HIM? DID HE CRY OUT FOR MERCY? BUT YOU DIDN'T STOP. DID YOU, PAUL?”

  Kaplan slowly looked on, approaching slowly in the crevice where Corris broke the trapper. She heard him yelling something out loud. The thunder and rain made it difficult from her distance. Kaplan's blood ran cold at the sight of Corris hitting Paul Jacob on the side of the ribs repeatedly, like a horseshoe being hammered into place on your best workhorse, until the man's ribcage gave way from the pummeling, collapsing in on itself. Corris dropped him on his back, splashing in the mud, screaming for precious air.

  The assault was merciless—the violence, excessive beyond what was necessary. The man was incapacitated. That wasn't good enough for Corris Lee. He briefly looked at Kaplan, who now stood about feet from him. No words were spoken. Hardly any eye contact either. Corris wiped the rain from his face on the back of his sleeve.

  “Why did you hurt that boy like that, Paul? The day you did that, you had to know I was coming to make things right. You had to know.”

  Paul tried to speak, but Corris broke his jaw with a rock-shattering right cross. Kaplan flinched from the spray of blood, the crackle of teeth grinding against his jaw.

  “You were right about one thing, Paul Jacob. This is a blood feud. Between your family and me. Just me. You will have the honor of delivering a message to your dearest old daddy. A message you and your mutt family will understand.

  This is for Asher. I’m gonna tear you apart. Limb from limb. With these hands. Say his name with me. It's the only name that will make the pain make sense. Okay? Okay. Hold your breath.”

  Corris Lee proceeded to pull Paul Jacob’s body apart.Kaplan turned from the grisly mutilation Corris Lee inflicted on Paul Jacob Grim. The sound of that man trying to mumble the words of Asher lasted for the next 30 minutes. The man's blood ran with the rainwater into

  the mine, feeding the hungry shadows awaiting below, awakened by the scent of fresh human blood.