by Gary Jonas
“I’m afraid I can’t hold them back much longer, regardless of the persuasions I exert over them. You must decide now.”
“I’ve got to stop this,” Jack whispered, so quietly he couldn’t hear his own words over the growling and snarling. “They’ll kill her.”
“Too many,” Chief said, his voice low and quiet but no longer bothering to whisper.
“I can’t sit here and do nothing.”
“I can. I will. It is foolish to consider doing anything else.”
Jack shook his head, surprised, but if Chief wouldn’t help, he would do it himself. He started to scramble out of the gully but a big hand on his shoulder held him back. Jack turned, ready to fight, but Chief held out his big bowie knife, hilt-first. “Here. You may need this.”
Jack just stared at the knife.
“It is not silver, but it will serve you well.”
Jack hesitated. “I can’t take it. You’ll need it.”
“Do not worry,” Chief said. “Wolves, even false-wolves, do not eat steel. I will retrieve it after they finish gnawing on your bones.”
Chief was so hard to read. Was the big man joking? Or just practical?
When Jack took the knife, Chief said, “Nice knowing you.”
Practical then.
Above them, Wolcott told the woman, “I will count to ten. After that, you’re on your own.”
Time to go.
Jack scrambled out of the gully. He crept forward, both his pistol and Chief’s knife held ready, moving as quietly as he could. With all the snarling and growling he had no need. Both the werewolves and Wolcott kept their attentions fixed on the woman.
Wolcott began to count. He spoke slowly, relishing the look of a trapped animal that spread across the woman’s face as each number was spoken.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine—“
“Ten,” Jack said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wolcott spun to face him.
The surprise on the vampire’s face pleased Jack. “Hey, Lord Bucky. Fancy meeting you here. I was just returning to see if the pretty lady here needed any further assistance. Bless me. It turns out maybe she does.”
“You are indeed a nuisance, sir,” Wolcott said.
Jack chuckled. “I don’t know about ‘sir’, but the nuisance part sounds close to right.”
Several of the werewolves started forward. Jack cocked the pistol and pointed it at the vampire’s heart.
Wolcott lifted the cane and turned it horizontal. The werewolves stopped. They snarled, their teeth eerily white, but came no closer.
“Good idea, Bucky. You didn’t stay dead the first time I shot you, but I won’t treat you so kindly the next time.”
Jack raised Chief’s big bowie knife in his left hand and let the blade catch the moonlight. To Jack, it didn’t look silver, but he kept it moving, making it harder for anyone else to see that. Not that he needed a silver knife to part Wolcott’s head from his body, but it couldn’t hurt to give Wolcott the impression he had some defense against the werewolves as well.
Wolcott relaxed his posture. Then he smiled, using that same trick he had back at the saloon so that his fangs protruded a bit, but not too much. “I admit that our first encounter provided a bit of shock. Some question remains as to how you managed to immobilize me with just a pistol. You wouldn’t care to elaborate, would you?”
Jack bobbed the pistol in his hand once. “Let’s just say that this gun has a power of its own. One that’s greater than either of us.”
“Ah, so the power’s in the pistol? Good to know. I feared you had something to do with it.”
Jack had said too much. He steadied the Peacemaker in his hand and pointed it again at Wolcott’s heart.
“As you see,” Wolcott continued, “your little toy had no permanent effect against me or my servants. Surely you now understand that nothing you do will harm us.”
“Yes. It’s a bit like having roaches. You keep killing the little suckers, but they always come back.”
“Undoubtedly you amuse yourself, but unlike me, you’re alone in this county whereas I have a local sawbones on retainer. Granted, he likes his drink and his women, but since I see that he is regularly supplied with both, he gets the job done.” Wolcott nodded to Jack. “After our initial difference of opinion earlier this evening, he was kind enough to remove the two bullets you loaned me. I hope you don’t want them back. I’m afraid I told him he could keep them as souvenirs.”
“Consider them a gift, my less than honorable Lord Bucky, one I’d be happy to share again if you’d like.”
Wolcott tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “You are an impertinent pup. But an excellent shot. My sawbones—who was relatively sober tonight—claimed both bullets tore through my heart. Your skill with that peashooter has swelled your head beyond its limits. While allowing you to shoot me again would undoubtedly be an inconvenient waste of time, it wouldn’t prove fatal. Being torn limb from limb by my friends here. . . .” Wolcott paused long enough to raise an eyebrow and nod his head at the snarling werewolves. “Well, that’s another matter entirely.”
“I can shoot them as easily as I can shoot you.”
“With only six shots? Hardly.”
“You’re forgetting about me,” Mrs. Mason said. The rifle in her hands shook slightly as she aimed it at Wolcott’s back.
Wolcott spoke without turning around. “I would never forget about you, my dear. You’re the entire purpose of my visit. Allow me to deal with this unpleasant interruption and I’ll return my attention to you shortly.”
Fire and smoke erupted from Mrs. Mason’s rifle. Blood and skin burst from Wolcott’s chest. He stumbled, but quickly righted himself, one hand over the hole in his top coat. The barest trickle of blood, looking black in the moonlight, wet his fingers. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. No more blood appeared on his top coat. The flesh beneath was already healing.
Mrs. Mason chambered another round.
Raising his voice so that it carried, Wolcott said, “Do that again, you daft cow, and I will have you torn apart.”
Mrs. Mason froze, mouth open.
Wolcott put the handkerchief away, but still did not turn around or otherwise look at the rancher’s wife.
After several seconds, she backed toward her shack.
Jack spoke, giving her time to make it inside and shut the door. “I’ll never let you hurt her. You should know that by now.”
“Oh, cease your tiresome blustering. If you plan to shoot me, get on with it so my pets can have their dinner. You’re obviously stalling, but for the lack of life in me, I can’t imagine why.”
Jack flicked a glance at the moon.
Wolcott watched the movement, then rolled his eyes. “My word! Do you truly believe I’ll stand here chatting with you until the moon sets? How simplistic you are! Chivalrous as well, but not particularly bright. In fact. . . .” Wolcott glanced at the knife and the corners of his mouth turned up.
Jack had quit moving it as they’d been talking but now realized his mistake and started its undulating motion again.
“I should have known you’d never find a silver carving knife this side of the Atlantic,” Wolcott said. “You’re nothing more than a good shot who’s full of his own bluster and a bit of luck.”
As he said the word luck, Wolcott pointed his cane at the sky, then slashed it down and pointed it at Jack. As a pack, the werewolves sprang forward.
Jack had earned his reputation as a shootist honestly. He shot two of the werewolves, hitting both in the chest, before the other four were on him. He caught the first one that sprang toward him on the tip of the big bowie knife. The animal’s weight drove him backwards and his back slammed into the ground hard. One of the other three sunk its teeth deep into his shooting arm. His hand spasmed, but he held onto the gun. If he lost the Peacemaker, he was finished.
The remaining werewolves snapped at his throat. Jack kept
them at bay by rocking the skewered werewolf back and forth like a heavy shield. At first, blood poured over Jack’s knife hand, but in moments it slowed and then stopped. The werewolf on the knife stirred, healing already.
Between the blurs of movement, Jack caught a glimpse of Wolcott. The other vampire observed the scene from only steps away, smiling serenely, obviously convinced that Jack was finished. His cruel arrogance burned through Jack. No way could Jack let Wolcott win, but already the wounds from the werewolves were starting to mount. While he’d managed to keep them from tearing out his throat, they were ripping at his arms and their teeth had torn several gashes across his scalp. He needed strength. He needed blood.
The skewered werewolf kicked, trying to free itself, and Jack understood what he needed to do. He wasn’t sure it would work. It might even kill him more quickly than his many wounds, but he had to try.
Tilting his head forward, he bit the werewolf above him. All he got was a mouth full of fur. Spitting and gagging, he realized his fangs wouldn’t extend. Rather than trying to figure out why, he pulled the knife out of the shield werewolf a couple inches, then plunged it in again. A fresh spurt of blood poured from the wound and he heaved the werewolf toward his head. As the animal crossed his face, he caught the stream of blood in his mouth. It tasted bitter and moldy and smelled of wet dog, but he forced himself to swallow. Before the blood slowed to a trickle, he managed to catch another few mouthfuls. With each swallow, power flowed into him.
I’m not dead yet, Bucky.
Using his newfound strength, Jack heaved the skewered animal toward the nearest werewolf snapping at his throat. As soon as the shield werewolf’s weight cleared the knife, he plunged it deep into the side of the werewolf gnawing on his arm. The werewolf yelped and jerked away. The knife tore free from his grip, but at last his shooting arm was free. Before another werewolf could grab him, he sent a slug into the nearest werewolf’s chest and turned the gun on Wolcott.
The Peacemaker felt loose in his hands. Several tendons had been torn. They were healing, but not yet reliable. Wolcott’s eyes widened as Jack pulled the trigger.
The shot missed Wolcott’s heart and tore through his shoulder. Wolcott ducked and ran, zigzagging into the darkness.
Shooting Wolcott had been foolish. Already the three remaining werewolves were on him. One tore into his shooting arm again, another latched onto the wrist of his free hand, and a third came at his throat. Using the last of his strength, Jack threw all his weight sideways. The werewolf missed his throat but its teeth bit into his shoulder. It chewed, obviously relishing the warm blood, caught up in the fury of the kill. Jack tried to kick the animals, but they had him pinned like a deer at midwinter. He shivered and his muscles cramped. He could feel himself losing consciousness. After another few feeble struggles, the Peacemaker slipped from his grip.
It was over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The werewolves hadn’t torn out his throat yet, but Jack felt the life draining from his body. Even though he had fed only a few hours ago, there were too many foes, too many bites, too much to heal all at once.
As his strength left him, Jack’s last wish was to have his Colt back. He wanted to die with a gun in his hand.
Suddenly two of the werewolves cried out and a crushing weight slammed against his chest. Legs scrambled against him, the werewolves yelping and growling. One weight vanished. Then the other. Jack lay for a moment, confused. The remaining werewolf had quit chewing but still had its teeth clamped onto his left arm. Jack felt along the ground with his right hand, doing his best to ignore the shooting bursts of pain and his cramping muscles. His arm barely worked, but when his fingers found the butt of the Colt, he felt hope. The werewolf on his arm growled, biting down for a better hold. Jack rolled to his left. More by feel than by sight, he placed the gun against its head and shot it between the eyes. The werewolf dropped and Jack sat up.
Several steps away a huge wolf, much larger than the werewolves, snarled as it attacked first one werewolf and then the other.
Chief.
Jack hadn’t seen Chief as a wolf before, but he was magnificent, his coat a mixture of browns and tans with a white underbelly and black along his back. Silver hairs salted a mostly black and tan face. His bright yellow eyes flashed as he snapped at one werewolf’s shoulder, then spun to fend off the other one as it lunged at his haunches.
Jack fought dizziness and nausea. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he had the flu. Shivers and body aches plagued him. He lifted the Colt but the gun trembled in his hand.
The werewolves were fighting like real wolves. Keeping on opposite sides of their foe, one would dash in until it had distracted Chief, then the other would lunge at his hindquarters.
Jack wrapped both hands around the Colt’s grip, but his left arm was nearly as injured as his right and neither arm would obey his will. He needed fresh blood, human blood. He looked for the rancher’s wife, cursing himself even as he did so. The door to the sod shack stayed closed, and she remained inside. Good for her. His need to feed was steadily growing. He didn’t think he’d succumb to it, but better not to have the temptation.
Aiming as carefully as he could, Jack waited. This was his last shot; he had to make it count. After one of the werewolves jumped away from Chief’s snapping jaws, it twisted, readying itself to attack again. For a moment it crouched, preparing to spring. Jack fired. The pressure of his finger against the trigger forced the barrel of the Colt down. The bullet hit at the werewolf’s feet, spraying it with dirt. He’d missed.
But the sound and the spray caused the werewolf to turn its head. Chief seized the opportunity and sunk his great jaws into the werewolf’s spine, just behind the head. Raising the werewolf into the air, he slammed it down, snapping its neck.
The last werewolf turned tail and ran. Chief trotted after it for several steps, then sat down and cocked his head as he watched it run away.
Jack rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. He tried to wobble toward Chief, but only made it two steps before crumpling face first into the prairie grass.
He may have lost consciousness for a few minutes, because the next sensations he felt were his arms as they were pulled behind him. A thick rope encircled his wrists and tied them tightly together. Then large hands rolled him over, his bound hands digging into his back.
Chief’s huge head loomed into view. “Just in case,” he said.
The big man held up his arm, which he sliced open with the bowie knife. After extending his arm, he dribbled the flowing blood over Jack’s face. Jack twisted his head back and forth, trying to avoid getting the blood into his mouth.
“Fool of a spirit taker,” Chief said, anger in his voice, “drink already. Werewolf blood is toxic to your kind. What were you thinking?”
“Toxic?” Jack asked. When his mouth opened, drops of blood hit his tongue. Suddenly he couldn’t help himself. He lapped at the dripping liquid like a man dying of thirst.
“Without human blood to counter the werewolf blood, you would have experienced a rich and painful death. And a final one. Even after drinking this, there will be temporary side-effects.”
Jack barely heard him. With each swallow, strength returned. Skin prickled and itched as it healed. His wounds were closing, his tendons mending, his muscles repairing themselves. All Jack could think about was the taste in his mouth. Wonderful blood. Then it stopped. For several seconds, Jack lapped at empty air.
Chief grunted and wrapped a cloth around the wound in his arm. “That’s enough. I wouldn’t want to spoil you.”
For several seconds, Jack couldn’t think straight. Then shame at his own hunger flooded him. He forced his mind to settle. From what Chief said, the big man had just saved his life. The blood was necessary if he were to survive, but he hated the way Chief had dribbled it over him. He hated it more that he couldn’t stop himself from licking his lips and stretching his tongue down toward his chin, searching for missed drops of the liquid life
.
While Chief dressed the cut he’d made to his own arm, Jack asked, “Care to untie me now?”
Chief raised his eyebrows. “I do not know. You seem less foolish this way.”
“I didn’t know werewolf blood was toxic, but even if I had known, I had no choice. I would have died without it.”
“Probably, but that is not what I meant. You should have never tried to battle all of them at once.”
“They would have killed her.”
“Maybe.” Chief shrugged. “Maybe she would have signed his piece of paper. Why trade someone’s life—even yours—for a piece of paper?”
Jack started to answer, stopped, then started again. “Paper? It’s not—I mean—land—that’s not the point.”
Chief grunted again. “The other spirit taker wanted ink on paper, nothing more. No one can own the land.”
“Maybe not in your world, Chief, but in everyone else’s, that’s the way it works.”
“Even so, you are a child to think you can take on six false-wolves and one spirit taker. I should have let them eat you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Chief rolled Jack onto his side and cut the rope binding his wrists. After Chief straightened, he looked at the horizon and said, “You fought bravely. Brave men—even foolish ones—do not deserve to die.”
Jack shook off the ropes and stood up. He still felt a bit dizzy and woozy—the side effects Chief had mentioned. “What about brave spirit takers?”
Chief cuffed him on the head and Jack nearly went down again. “Jackass.”
Jack grinned and tried to rub the ache from his arms. “Have you forgotten my last name already?”
Before Chief could answer or cuff him again, a female voice spoke from behind them. “Hold it right there, both of you.”
Jack turned. Mrs. Mason had emerged from the sod shack, the rifle in her hands.
Chief looked at Jack, his head cocked slightly, as if to say, “You’re the one who wanted to save her.”
Jack sighed. “Mrs. Mason, I’ve saved your life twice tonight. Both times, you’ve pointed a gun at me. Did no one ever teach you how to say ‘Thank you?’”