three toes

By the light of the full moon, old Cheyenne would saddle his horse and ride out into the Badlands. He'd been riding full moons for years hunting old Three Toes, the crippled wolf that haunted Sage Creek. As the moon rose into the night, old Three Toes would howl and cry. Old Cheyenne would follow the lament into the canyon-like creek bottom among the scattered Cedars and sagebrush. He'd ride over the sand bars and wade the alkali waters that pooled here and there, creating eddies of white clay. His buckskin mare picked its path with care and jerked her head sharply at Three Toes crying.
Last night, the full moon rose and old Cheyenne saddled the mare. He rode out on a dusty buffalo trail and down to the creek. Old Three Toes howled on cue and Cheyenne turned the mare in the direction of the call. The steep embankment was littered with snow and ice and the mare stumbled as she descended. Old Cheyenne, not as spry as he once was, slipped from his saddle and tumbled down the steep bank to the creek below. A broken collarbone jutted from his left shoulder.
Old Three Toes approached silently, surveying the scene. With care, he drug Old Cheyenne from the frigid water and onto the sandy, rocky flat. He chased the mare home and set to howling in Old Cheyenne's yard. There was nobody there to hear. Old Cheyenne died that night, but Three Toes is still out there, howling and crying for his best and oldest friend.