A Tale Out of Luck by Willie Nelson, Mike Blakely Page A

an undercut bank on the opposite side. The Wolf dragged himself in among the branches and pulled his head in like a mere turtle.
    He held to one hope: that he would not die here without weapons in his hands, that he would not enter the Shadow Land without so much as a flint knife, that he might survive this awful wound and live to fight another day, that he, the Original Wolf, would one day stand again to avenge this injustice.
    He remembered his vision quest, when the great wolf had spoken to him. The Original Wolf. The spirit-warrior who had fathered the Noomah nation, then turned into an immortal four-legged. He remembered what the Original Wolf had told him in his vision.
    Now, you are as I was. You are the Wolf. The Original Wolf. Your time will come to howl.
    He felt his conscious thoughts slipping away, and wondered in which world he might awake next.

14
    A SPONTANEOUS PEAL of laughter shook the saloon as Flora served up Hank’s fourth beer and slid a shot of whiskey into place beside the full mug.
    “. . . and I don’t think this kid had ever been five miles outside of San Antone in his whole life, but he wanted to cowboy,” Hank said, continuing his yarn.
    Several of Flora’s best customers had drifted in as word spread throughout Luck that Captain Tomlinson was feeling talkative down at the tavern.
    “We had about two thousand head of cattle we were drivin’ to Kansas,” Hank recalled, “and for the first few hundred miles, the kid learned fast and made a pretty good hand. The boys started callin’ him the San Antone Kid. He turned stampedes and swam flooded rivers. Nothin’ much spooked him. But, then, we crossed the Red River into Indian Territory and a bunch of howlin’ renegade Kiowas attacked our camp at dawn, stampeded the cattle, and shot an arrow through the crown of the San Antone Kid’s hat. Parted his hair! We rallied and chased the Indians off, but we spent all day roundin’ up the cattle . . .”
    Hank held up a finger and paused to gulp his beer, clearly relishing the silent anticipation of the men around him. “Well, we started the herd north again, all except for the San Antone Kid, who I saw headin’ south. So I rode up on him and said, ‘Kid, where the hell are you goin’?’ He said, ‘I’m goin’ to get my pistol.’ I said, ‘Well, where did you leave your pistol?’ He said, ‘San Antone!’”
    The men burst into laughter again, and Hank threw back his shot of whiskey.
    “Another?” Flora asked.
    “Oh, I don’t know, Flora. I mean, not unless these gents want to have one with me and drink a toast to Texas!”
    A cheer rattled the windowpanes, coins hit the bar, and Flora began looking forward to turning a better-than-average afternoon profit. She was wishing Jane might show up a little early for work to help her and Harry deal with the drink orders, and just then, she heard Jane’s voice.
    “Flora! Captain Tomlinson! Y’all better come look!”
    Flora turned and found Jane holding one of the double swinging doors open. Through the open doorway, Flora saw a buckboard wagon pass down the street. She couldn’t see what was in the wagon bed, but above the sideboards, she clearly saw the feathered ends of several arrow shafts shaking like rattlesnake tails as the buckboard clattered down the rutted street. It stopped in front of Sam Collins’s store.
    Flora and Hank went to the door, followed by half the men in the saloon. The other half crowded the windows for a better view.
    “Did you see inside the wagon bed?” Hank asked.
    “No, sir,” Jane answered.
    Could be anyone lying back there, Flora thought. She remembered that Jay Blue and Skeeter were out there somewhere, and she knew Hank must be worried half to death right now, though a glance at his face showed no emotion.
    She walked with Hank across the street, followed by the entire population of the saloon. Poli and Tonk fell into place right behind Hank. The driver of the buckboard had stepped from the wagon