Chapter Text
“The thing about werewolves is-- that is, the big, critical, key thing about them monsters, is--”
“You don’t know they’re monsters ‘til the full moon?”
“No, you small-minded fool. It’s that you do know they’re monsters, ‘cause it’s in their nature. They’re the ones rustling livestock, the ones sniffing ‘round your mom’s skirts while your dad’s out on honest work, the-- the rambunctious degenerates.”
“Don’t see how there’s much difference from any other rambunctious degenerate.”
“See, those all-human degenerates, those good-for-nothing - those thieves, those, ah, killers - well, there’s still a man in there. He answers for his crimes by the merciful hand of the law. But with werewolves, it’s just-- it’s a monster in a man suit.”
“You mean, a monster in human clothing?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Sure, I guess, but ‘man suit,’ that’s pretty odd. Think my wording rolls off the tongue much better.”
“Oh, shut up. As I was saying, with werewolves, unlike men, you can put ‘em down for the betterment of society without any fuss from the law… Let nature take its natural course. And get paid better than most any bounty.”
“And you’re sure it’s easier than most bounties, too?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. Now, of course, it’s not that I’ve ever hunted a werewolf myself, but I hunted wolves in the high country last fall when I was working in the lumber crew. This can’t be so different.”
Late fall on the western plains meant dry brush tall as a pony’s rump and near nowhere to hitch a horse without stepping on a cactus or five. Homesteaders had done their best to make something of the land, but they’d largely backed up to the rivers as the land refused to yield anything better than scraggly cobs that made nobody except the pigs happy.
Worse yet, the dry grasses proved a high propensity for wildfires. Not even the pigs stuck around to deal with the aftermath of a poorly tended campfire.
Worst yet was the insanity the natives threatened any well-meaning, pioneering soul with: werewolfism.
The brush-fires and poor land, the people were willing to contend with. They’d find a way, as their forefathers had when they’d crossed that great pond from wretched Europe.
The absurdity of a man becoming beast, and beast consuming man-- oh, lord above, that was the devil’s own running wild. The West was a nice reprieve from civilization, but a God-fearing soul still had standards.
Which led to folk taking up arms and rooting out the werewolves. The tribes were easy enough, being concentrated and predictable as they were. The non-Indians that survived an attack, got corrupted, and then refused to turn themselves in for humane and dignified execution-- they were the real issues. Their good blood couldn’t take the mixing. As an unfortunate consequence, they were as good as beasts themselves by the second moon. It was a mercy to put them down.
And because it was a service to both God and the homesteaders who wanted dearly to return to their involuntarily abandoned land to do so, folk paid handsomely for werewolves.
To ensure such a handsome collection, however, they needed to be brought in while they were still in their monstrous wolf form.
“... And that’s why we’re out here during a full moon.” One hunter finished triumphantly, quite pleased with his thorough research into this peculiar but well-paying matter.
The other hunter was duly impressed, though his mind lingered on other matters. “I appreciates the fact that a wolf can’t use a rifle, myself. Don’t fancy getting shot at more’n usual.”
“That, too.”
The two had met not a day prior, having both over-heard and become interested in the homesteader’s woes of being driven out of their home by a pack of four ne’er-do-wells with distinctly wolfish airs. When asked how they’d known the folks were werewolves, not just bandits, they’d said it was the eyes. They caught the light like the dog’s own uncivilized predecessor.
That, and they’d had an Indian with them. That presence was a surefire sign of werewolfism being afoot.
Taking the homesteader at his scared, shaking word and bolstered that they were doing the right thing after hearing how the werewolves’ ransacked his family’s home, the two hunters saddled up and rode on to root out the miserable beasts. The land wasn’t more than a half-day’s ride away, but they’d decided to camp out until night fell and a good, bright, round moon rose before they reached the land proper.
“Is that the Smith’s barn, there?”
“Looks like. Alright, let’s leave the horses here.”
The land - a rolling hill made of dust, dirt and the occasional tumbleweed - wasn’t very impressive, and its facilities even less so. If it weren’t for the government offering a bounty per werewolf head, the hunters privately and individually concluded that there was no way they’d bother helping the poor farmer-to-be. Though there was a pig pen and chicken coop by the front, both were devoid of animals. The fields in the back, which should’ve boasted healthy wheat or corn, had gone fallow. Funny, as the farmers certainly couldn’t have afforded to miss a year’s worth of crops.
“Shouldn’t there by howling by now? On account of them being like wolves and all?”
“You ever stop asking stupid questions, buddy?”
“I’m a curious soul. My mama said so.”
“Your mama should’ve taught you how to keep ‘em on the inside. Would save the rest of us a headache.”
“Hey, now, no need to be rude.”
“Hush up. You’re going to tip ‘em off.”
“That matters?”
“Another stupid question…”
Unhappy grumbling saw the hunters up the dirt path to the barn’s side. Under the white moon, rifles’ metal muzzles gleamed. As they approached, a great, ugly bird took off from the barn’s loft and flapped its way off into the night.
Privately, the lumberjack-turned-hunter agreed that the lack of howling to be peculiar. The timber wolves had howled up a storm when they’d smoked out their den. Maybe it was that these werewolves didn’t feel threatened. Surprise being on their side was for the better, he decided. The thought did a little to calm his nerves.
The barn door, when he gave it a nudge, refused to open. On the other side, a chain rattled; and, beyond the startlingly loud clank of heavy metal, something scuffed around in dirt.
The hunters exchanged glances.
A few more somethings scuffed around in the dirt. A whine accompanied the scuffling-- and, on the tail of that, a low growl.
Even through the barns’ thick wooden doors, it sent a shiver straight into the hunters’ bones.
Whatever growled like that had been born and bred to hunt mankind. They knew it even without seeing it.
“That doesn’t sound like no horse, Earl,” the curious soul said.
“Shut up, Henry,” the one-time-hunter hissed.
“Excuse me, gentlemen?”
The hunters jumped and swung around, their rifles snapping up with the turn.
The man put his hands up immediately, clearly attempting to dissuade them from using their guns. “Whoa! Don’t be too hasty, please. I’m sure we can talk this out.”
In the barn, the scuffling and growling went silent.
“Who’re you, mister?” Earl snapped.
“And where’d you come from?” Henry added. “Didn’t see nobody around here.”
“I was on my way home when I saw a pair of suspicious folk trying to break into my good neighbor’s barn,” the man said, dropping his hands slowly to his sides. He had no weapons on him, no pistol at his hip or bandolier across his chest, which was the only reason the hunters didn’t point their own rifles at him. “I was hoping to persuade you two to reconsider whatever delinquency you had in mind.”
Earl wasn’t too sure how the well-meaning but apparently dumb-as-dirt fellow intended to do that without lead to back him up.
Still, that wasn’t for him to point out. Not while the guy was being so understanding.
“No delinquency here, mister. Just rooting out some nasty werewolves.”
“Did you say werewolves?”
“Yessir, werewolves. The same that drove the Smiths out of their home.”
The man’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline.
“Is that right.” His mouth curved up at the edge, his teeth a cut of white in the moonlight. “Have either of you ever seen a werewolf?”
“Not yet,” Henry said, “but we’re thinking there’s some in this barn.”
“And why’s that?”
“Smith said there was a savage among their number. Clear sign of werewolves being a foot.” Earl cleared his throat, planting his feet firmly on the ground and giving his best you don’t belong here glare at the interloper. “You best be getting on, mister. Could get messy.”
And, if the guy wasn’t as dumb as he seemed, he’d know how much the beasts were worth per head. Then again, there was no way he’d demand a cut without any bargaining power. Earl wasn’t even sure how much he was going to share with Henry, since he was the one with all the experience.
“If there truly are bona fide werewolves in there,” -- he emphasized the if with a generous dollop of amusement, sounding not as impressed with the pair of them as he should be --, “I would be worried the mess would end up on the wrong side of the gun barrel, if you catch what I mean.”
“I don’t, sir, and I don’t rightly care. Listen, we’re being hospitable right now, but we’ve got a job to do. Your neighbors’ll be back soon enough.”
“To down a werewolf, you need silver bullets.”
“Is that true?” asked Henry, simpleton that he was.
“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Earl sniffed, propping his rifle on his hip and feeling his ire rise at this continued interruption of an otherwise fine hunting trip. “They’re like wolves. You just gotta shoot right.”
“Are you willing to wager on that?”
“Of course.” He scoffed, looking the man up-and-down. The fellow had fancy clothing-- even had what looked like a gold pocket-watch attached to his pristine red-and-black vest- so, the pickings would probably be good. “Thirty dollars.”
It was Henry’s turn for his eyebrows to jump up. “Wait, Earl--”
“You ain’t in this bet, Henry. This fine gentlemen, who still hasn’t given us a name, he’s wagering.”
“That’s not--”
“Hush!”
“Thirty bucks is no small matter.” The man was far more jovial about it than Earl expected. What a braggart. “But I imagine, to see you take down a werewolf, it would be worth it. Alright. You’ve a deal. Thirty bucks.”
“Don’t be bluffing, now. I can tell a man of your… standing may be inclined to lies.”
The smile tightened at the edges.
“Sir. I would never.”
Henry leaned in to hiss at his ear, “How’re we going to get in to the werewolves, though, Earl? Barn’s locked. From the inside.”
Oh.
“Uh.” Think fast! He thought fast, scanning the meager homestead for anything helpful. “There’s gotta be a… a ladder. Or, hey, we can shoot it open.”
“And tip our hand?”
“Think our hand’s tipped, Henry.”
“If nothing else, you’re right about that.” The man’s smile grew, though it was closed-lip. He stepped forward and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a beaming look. “But don’t worry. I have a way in.”
Before Henry could even get out a you do?, the man brushed past them and put his hands on either side of the barn doors.
He then gave one hard shove.
To Earl’s astonishment, the man didn’t just get stuck in the awkward, embarrassing position of any man trying to use his bare hands to break through chain. Instead, the old wood creaked and cracked, the frame denting and then snapping as the doors crashed open.
The chain swung wildly to the left, its bolt pulled from the wood.
Inside, the moonlight streamed down from the loft, a bright shaft of light that illuminated the bloodied, torn carcasses of gutted pigs. The stench of fresh death poured from the interior, reeking worse than the inside of a horse’s mouth. The hunters staggered back, gagging, at both sight and smell.
“Boys, Mrs. Alder,” the man called, his hand waved absently in the air as he strode unconcerned into the dark, “I brought you a treat. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
Out of the dark resolved three unnatural shapes: wolves stretched-out , their forelimbs long and dexterous, their claws a cruel and wicked curve. They came in a variety of sizes and weights, their pelts a range of color from charcoal to golden, though all tended toward monstrous.
Through the barn doors, the growling had struck a primal chord that sang in fear. In flesh, with no barrier, the snarling shook the hunters in their boots, the hair on their napes standing on-end and their teeth rattling in their skulls.
True to the Smith’s claim, the eyes caught light and reflected yellow. The farmer hadn’t mentioned how eerie, how surreal, it was to see such glowing discs from a form that might once have been human.
“Oh, sweet Jesus--”
Earl raised his rifle and took a shot at the biggest one’s head.
It snapped back, its snarl cut off in a pained yelp, its paws immediately raising to scratch at the wound; but it didn’t fall. It didn’t crumble. It was nothing like the timber wolves that skulked by the lumber yard.
And while it was distracted, the other two surged forward. They parted like water around the man, who watched with that unwavering amusement, his lips quirked up.
The moonlight caught his teeth - some of which were too sharp, too long, too inhuman. More like the monsters the Europeans had crossed an ocean to escape from.
Earl felt like a two-timed fool.
He tried to run.
He didn’t make it far.