A Wolf Called Dingo

May you live all the days of your life - Jonathan Swift

Monday June 18, 1897.

The wheezing and spitting of the sappy wood in the fire sent sparks jumping into the night air, illuminating their night’s camp on a sheltered inlet at the entrance to the Slave River.

Ravissante came over and re-filled his coffee, and Wasey gave her bum a smack as she turned away, soliciting a squeal of reproachful delight from his wife.

“Dat is enough of dat! Don’t you ever get enough?!”

“No,” Wasey allowed, “I reckon not. . . .”

He sipped on his coffee, smiling, as he remembered his anger and frustration at finding Ravissante all packed and seated in the canoe the morning they left.

Dressed in boy’s britches and a flannel shirt she sat there, defiantly, as he railed on her about the dangers of the trail, and how they couldn’t be waitin’ on some soft woman to keep up.

“Yell yourself blue in de face, for all I care. . .“Ravissante snapped back. “But I am going and I will never complain, and I will help all dat I am able.”

“Yer defying me then?!”

Ravissante just shook her long dark locks and glared at him.

Quite a crowd had gathered to see them off, and everyone was staring expectantly at Wasey to see what he’d do next. He lowered his voice so only Ravissante could hear him, “Yer know I’d be within my rights as yer husband, to paddle yer arse and have Jacque hold you while we git on our way.”

“You do dat Wasey Bruce, “Ravissante screamed, “and you’ll have no wife to return to!”

The crowd was really abuzz now, like as not wondering what manner of boorish threat he’d made. Wasey shook his head, knowing he was licked. “Fuck it.” He said softly, and five minutes later they were on the river, Ravissante riding with Cade, and Wasey and young Walter in the other canoe. He said nary a word to her all that day, but his resolve melted when she made their bed that night.

That was almost a month ago and true to her word Ravissante never complained. She was happy to let Walter do most of the cooking, but she kept herself busy by keeping all of them in clean clothes, and maintaining the camp. Wasey had to admit she was a pleasure to have along, but he’d be damned if he’d ever say it.

Wasey watched Cade slice a hunk off the roasted rabbit and toss it to the young wolf they’d rescued a few weeks before.

The wolf had been pretty much done in when they happened on it, sprawled across a sand bar, too weak to resist their attentions. By the looks of the animal it had been swept down stream for quite a ways before finally scrambling out, too exhausted to go any further. Ravissante managed to get some food in the critter and wrapped a blanket around it, and for the next week the animal slept, curled up, in the bow of a canoe.

The wolf was six – maybe eight months old, but hard to determine, ‘cause he was so scrawny. Now, the little bugger was frisky as ever, attacking boots and ankles, and always hungry. The animal gobbled the chunk of meat Cade tossed him and sniffed around for more.

Wasey sipped on his coffee and mulled over a passage in Jacque Du Beau's journal - Large sweeping bend in river, deep gorge, and long sand bar - with enormous footprints in the rock. The footprints of God? His mind was calm as he stared into the dancing flames of the fire. This he would have to see.

Cade poured himself a cup of coffee and lay back against his bedroll, just a few feet away.

"Looks like that little rascal has adopted us."

"I reckon." Cade agreed and then pointed to the journal that lay in Wasey's lap.

"What’s Jacque say’s on the river fer tomorrow, anythin’ excitin’?"

Wasey nodded, "Jacque mentions some unusual footprints that we’ll be passin’ by sometime ‘round mid mornin’.” They’d come to rely on Jacques journal, and it quickly became a nightly ritual to go over the next days terrain.

"What do you mean, unusual?"

"Here, look fer yerself."

Cade took the journal, glanced at it, and laughed.

"What’s so funny?"

"I was just thinkin’ how like Jacque to call them the footprints of God."

Wasey lay back and stared at the stars. "Then yer have a notion of what they are?"

Cade gulped some coffee and looked thoughtfully at him. "Fair Dinkum, I just might, Wasey. But I think I'll wait ‘til I see them, ‘fore I say anything."

Wasey nodded while he pocketed the journal. “Fair enough.”

He got up and made toward the glade where Ravissante had made their bed. He’d been waiting for just the right time to go over, since watching her retreat there ten minutes before.

“Try and keep yer missus from wailing half through the night.” Cade requested, with mock anger, “It’s tough fer a bloke to get any rest with you two squawking til' mornin'.”

“I heard dat, Cade McCord!” Ravissante yelled out, “A gentleman should not have such good hearing, in da middle of da night.”

Cade laughed, “Well I never claimed to be no gentleman, but yer mite get an argument from me mother on that point.”

“Never mind your moder; it’s you, monsieur, who I am talking to. . . .”

“Fair dinkum Wasey, “Cade sputtered, “I don’t know how yer control her?”

“Yar. . .she’s a handful. . . .”

“You men are somedin’.” Ravissante sniffed, “Woman are de boss in all relationships, and if a man dinks oderwise, he’s a fool.”

“She’s right about that, Cade,“ Wasey granted, “How long’d it take yer ta train me darlin’? A year?”

“Oui, it was a year.” Ravissante agreed, “And if you wouldn’t have been so stubborn, mon cheri, you would have had a happy bed sooner.”

This is an excerpt from Chapter Five of The Last Best West by Longfellow Deeds. Copyrite © 2002 All rights Reserved. No portion or part maybe reproduced by any physical, mechanical or electronic means. Please contact us at for further information or assistance.

First Scene: Poke and Willie share a jug. | Read another scene with Wasey and Ravissante.

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