Wolves of the Western Wilds

Bad moon on the rise.

Wyoming Territory, 1883

Keziah “Hatchet” Hood clung to the altar of the church like a drowning man adrift at sea clings to flotsam and jetsam. The building was new enough that he could still smell paint on the whitewashed walls. He coughed, swearing violently; his body racked with pain from the deep gashes where his flesh was torn. The legendary gunslinger and horse soldier had come to the recently settled town of Banshee’s Ford to hunt what was supposed to be a rogue bear mauling livestock, and even a few people, but the reality was worse. So much worse.

Outside, a bloodcurdling howl fractured the night.

Hood gazed at the rough hewn timber cross hanging over him. Like all good southern boys, he had been raised to fear God, and to do His bidding. However, years of war and violence had dimmed Hood’s faith considerably. Now, he suddenly found himself blessed with an overwhelming abundance of belief.

“If you are up there, Lord, I reckon I sure could use a hand right about now.”

His plea was met by an eerie silence. With trembling hands, Hood drew his Remington from the holster on his left shoulder, and opened the revolving chamber to remove empty cartridges. The horrific events of that night flashed through his mind as each spent shell casing clattered to the floorboards.

The towering, loping shadows approaching the town. The elongated snouts and slavering jaws glistening under the full moon. The panicked screams and thunderous reports of blazing guns echoing through the night. The searing, hot agony as razor sharp claws raked over his body.

Hood fumbled at his gun belt for ammunition, but came away emptyhanded. Cursing once more, he flung the useless pistol across the church. As it landed somewhere in the darkness with a resounding thud, the building’s sturdy maple door splintered. In the entryway, framed by the light of a full moon, stood a hulking figure with baleful red eyes and blood-soaked fur. The last creature to survive the vicious skirmish in the torchlit streets of Banshee’s Ford had found him at last.

On unsteady legs, Keziah “Hatchet” Hood got to his feet, and brandished the Arapaho tomahawk that was his namesake. The werewolf snarled, hurtling towards him down the aisle between the oak pews. With grim determination, and all the strength he could muster, Hood steadied himself and catapulted his axe at the oncoming beast.

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