I recently had a relative send me this old story published over 50 years ago. Since it’s reached its 50 year limit, I thought I’d share it with you over the next few days. It’s quite the story!
Lost among the wolves by Mary E. Witherup in Wyoming Magazine, Vol VIII No. 2 June-July 1975, pages 36-39.
After what seemed to us a very long time, we heard the trampling of horses and riders, riding hard and drawing near. Talk about footfalls down the corridors of time, the memory of these pounding, lively hoof beats thrill me still whenever I recall the incident and the relief of tension they brought. Someone was coming. No sweeter sound will my hearing know and no more wonderful scene of marvel and surprise will come to my eyes as we threw open the door and the lamplight shone on a group of prancing, glistening, foam-flecked horses and riders, with guns and lanterns. They stopped for a split second to see if all was well at the cabin and were off again, scattering in every direction. The hoof-beats died away, giving place to more wolf howls.
Then came the crunching, grinding sound of wagon wheels, Mr. Ainsworth had hitched a team to his wagon and brought Mother, his wife and younger members of his family, not in the saddle, to stay with us till morning. He also did the delayed milking and chore jobs.
In the emergency, no one had stopped for supper, so in the lull of waiting for reports, Mother, more to cover her anxiety, then not, got busy with Mrs. Ainsworth and prepared coffee and sandwiches for the grownups and hot milk toast for the children. We had just been set up around the table with a bowl of toast before us. Mother, a few minutes before had opened the door for a bit of fresh air – the cabin was stuffy – when Ainsworth’s big bushy dog tore in. He was in convulsions, frothing at the mouth and acting terrible. He ran under the table and ranted around in horrible pain against our feet and legs. We were all frightened almost into hysterics. Mr. Ainsworth finally got hold of the dog. It was a valuable dog to him, as he raised and trained dogs for hunting and shepherding. He tried to save its life by pouring pounds of melted lard down its throat, to induce vomiting. It had found and eaten of the poison bait. The dog quieted a little and Mr. Ainsworth took it out and shut it up in our privy. But it died and made another problem. None of us children would ever go near that outdoor toilet again. We even shuddered to look in that direction and a different one had to be contrived temporarily, of boxes and gunny sacks in a different location. And too, for months after this night, we children sat on our feet as we ate at the table, fearful of putting them under.
Out in the night, three shots rang out and echoed among the Nowood’s tawny bluffs. Other signal shots answered. The little lost boy was found. Found by a half-breed Indian who was working at one of the ranches. He had followed fresh wolf tracks in the frost and snow till they led to the boy, moaning under a sagebrush. There were circles of tracks where the wolves had gone round and round him.
The scout wrapped him in his own self-warmed jacket, as the hunters convened and took him home. One rider found Donnie’s hood and stick horse near the water’s edge and was searching the river. Another had seen a mountain lion. Donnie was found two and a half miles from home at two-thirty in the morning. He would not have survived the night, as it turned very cold.
Everyone rejoiced at the happy ending of the hunt. They stopped for hot coffee and to rehearse similar events and, to see the boy come to. Mother could find no words adequate to thank God and the neighbors for her child’s safe return. The heart must speak when the lips are dumb. She sat by the glowing stove hearth, massaging and rubbing warm goose grease into the chilled little body and spooned him with warm milk. Esther and I watched close beside her, pleased he was home. He was home and that the wolves didn’t get him after all.
He did revive and survived to experience and survive a greater danger, now a disabled World War One Veteran, Donald J. Lord lives at Riverton.
Two photos accompanied this article originally. Since this copy was simply typed from the article, I do not have them. I have sent a letter to the state archives, hoping they had a copy of this magazine. But since the highway crosses Crooked Creek, I stopped today to take photos for you. The highway crosses about halfway on the route Mrs. Lord would have run to get help.
Frozen over now, Crooked Creek is a tiny thing, often only a foot or two wide, but in spots, it spreads out into a marshy, lumpy, boggy bottom. It can be tricky to cross a horse if you have one that doesn’t appreciate sucking mud like Panama! This is looking west, toward the Nowood Creek, where down in the bottom, before the red bluffs, would have been the Lord’s dugout.
Looking east towards the Big Horns, Crooked Creek winds its way to the south, then turns back north to the big cottonwoods you can see in the distance. The country is rough and broken as draws fall down to the creek. I imagine it was a rough journey in the dimming light while panicking over a lost little boy.
The Ainsworth house still survives in those tall cottonwoods. It is on the National Register of Historic Places.
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