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trees on his left. Nathan whipped around and fired, but wasn’t quick enough. The shot went wide. The wolf hit him with close to 200 pounds of muscle and mean. The Henry went flying and Nathan tumbled onto his back and rolled, sucking for air as his hands clawed for new weapons. He figured he had cracked a couple ribs at least. Blood was running down his face from cuts to his scalp. If he didn’t do something quickly, the ribs would be the least of his worries.
                  That’s when he got a good look at the wolf. It was gray and black, with some lighter fur around its mouth. It had a huge head that sat on powerful, muscled shoulders. Its fangs were enormous and deadly as it howled in rage. Nathan didn’t even have time to pull the Colt from its holster. He just fired from the hip.
                  The wolf dove forward and Nathan tried to slide back out of the way, jabbing a Bowie knife at the animal with his left hand. The knife slashed the wounded creature, splattering blood. The wolf bit desperately at his arm, making a loud chomp with its teeth. Luckily it grabbed mostly coat, not flesh. The Colt roared again and then again until the wolf was done moving.
                  Nathan passed out from the pain. He awoke with the sound of a nearby jeep and saw that Madey was looking down at him. The jeep had to be Wally. Nathan was determined not to let the young man see him lying down, even now. His right hand grabbed the reins and he pulled himself up, slowly, painfully.
    * * *
                  The trip to the doc confirmed three cracked ribs, 27 stitches in various places and a dislocated left shoulder from knife fighting what turned out to be a 187-pound gray wolf. The boys, as he called his hands, had weighed it. They were impressed.
                  The injuries were enough for the police report to keep him safe from the feds. Still, some whiny idiots were bound to make trouble for him daring to defend himself against two predators. Of course, the same morons would complain if he had shot two thugs who had tried to mug him. Left Coast morality was no morality at all.
                  The doctor was business-like. It wasn’t unusual for him to sew up patients missing pieces from animals, barbed wire, or the occasional knife fight. Doc Lewis didn’t even bother telling Nathan he had to stay in bed for a few weeks. He knew that would be a waste of breath. “See you at the party tomorrow?” Nathan just smiled.
                  The party was an annual event for the local cattlemen and women. It was held every May, just to celebrate surviving another hard Montana winter. This year it was at his friend Milt Hotchkiss’s “Malted Milt” Ranch a bit closer to Lewiston. Milt had about 3,000 deeded acres with 1,500 acres of government lease area for extra grazing.  That was nothing—his longtime friend had once joked that his entire spread would fit in Nathan’s barn.
                  Nathan Cutler was a fifth-generation rancher, with what granddad had called a “mother lode of money.” But for all that ranching had made the family fortune, the stock market made it 100 times bigger. Forbes estimated the Cutler family fortune at just shy of $600 million. Nathan laughed out loud when he read that. He hadn’t checked in the last five minutes, but the last tally was closer to $2 billion—enough to buy just about anything.
                  The party was a typical cattleman evening. Drinking, catching up on the news, and lots of jokes made at Nathan’s expense because of his injury. He knew the humor held deeper concern from friends who didn’t understand why he still rode out every day to check on his stock—even in deepest winter. Most of the ranchers paid others for that privilege.
                  Much of the talk was still about the recently cloned sheep, Dolly. A year after the announcement, the