Night of Wolves

In days of old, when nights grew cold, men told a dreadful tale of Trapper Jim—how they buried him on a night the wolves did wail. It seems at the time, Jim was checking his line, and stopped to camp for the night— He heard a sound as wolves gathered round which gave him an awful fright. His horse and mule were no one’s fool— they whinnied and brayed at the moon for they knew their fate, it was much too late, they would all be devoured soon. There was nowhere to run in the midnight sun, escape was the man’s one desire— Like ghosts in the night, wolves sprang and took flight as their shadows danced in the fire. He pulled up his rifle, but nary a trifle would be left of him there alone— His friends would find him, the man they called Jim, just a hank of hair and a bone. Now, no one can say what happened that day as the trapper knelt there in the dark, but men say today, it happened that way, and the tale is true—not a lark. And they tell of wolves with cloven hooves that prowl and chase in a pack, of forbidden grounds where devilish sounds are heard if you turn your back. The story is clear if you’ll just lend an ear to the tale of Trapper Jim’s fate— Don’t tramp on his grave, nor pretend to be brave, or you’ll find it might be too late. Tamara Hillman ©2007