Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1)

by Josh Reynolds

  “It was something unnatural,” Carter told Slate, when he arrived at the Sasabe ranch. “I’ve heard of you, Slate,” he said. He was a short, stocky man with a weather-beaten face and a thick handlebar moustache. Carter had sent wires to all the places he heard Slate was known to frequent, and had finally reached him in Monterey. It was three and a half weeks since his son had been killed. They were standing out by the corral where it happened.

  “You deal in matters like this,” Carter said. “You know how to handle it. The sheriff came here the day after my son was killed. He said a man named Mitch Logan had robbed a bank in town and may have been headed this way. I told Sheriff Rintoon I thought I’d seen him and I thought he killed my boy. He’d heard what had happened to my son, but like everyone else, he believed I only thought I saw a man standing there. Everyone who saw Jess’s body could not bring himself to believe that a man could have done that. It had to be a wild animal. So I stopped telling my story, and let the sheriff and everyone believe what they want. Sheriff Rintoon still hasn’t found the bank robber, just like I knew he never would…”

  He looked up at Slate with red-rimmed eyes. “I know what I saw—Mitch Logan ain’t just no ordinary man. No ordinary bank robber, neither—he’s some kind of wolf-man.” He pulled a plug of tobacco out of his pocket and took a chaw.

  “I heard stories about wolves up in the mountains. They come up from Mexico as the Indians tell it. Always thought it was superstitions, but not anymore.” He spat the chaw out without even chewing it. “That’s why I called you,” he said. “Get that ungodly piece of shit—whatever he is—and kill him.”

  Now, three days later, it was the first night of the full moon, and the thing that had killed Hayden Carter’s son was downstairs eating dinner. Far off beyond the canyon, Slate heard the cries of wolves, echoing through the mountains.

  After the bath, he dressed. A Mexican woman had cleaned up his riding outfit: black denim jacket and pants, grey wide brim, black boots, now nicely polished. He went over to the chair where he’d slung his saddlebags and carried them to a small table by the window. He lifted the cover flap and turned the bags upside down. The sack with his money fell out, along with some other personal objects. He reached inside the bag and his fingers grasped a small metal hook sewn into the side at the bottom of the bag. He pulled on the hook and a wide strip of leather came loose, revealing a hidden compartment. He pulled several items out of the compartment: One was a narrow, silver-bladed knife that was encased in a leather sheath. Next was a spare cylinder for the Colt 1855. He checked it to be sure it was loaded with six silver shells. Finally, he pulled a gold-plated, double-barreled Remington derringer out of the bag. He broke it open and saw the two silver shells sitting in the twin barrels.

  He rigged the knife so the strap came over his shoulder, the sheathed blade resting on his chest under his jacket. He dropped the rifle cylinder in the pocket of his jacket, and tucked the derringer under his belt. He looked out the bedroom window, and the bright yellow moon glared down at him. Whatever was going to happen, he was ready for it.

  When he came down the stairs, he heard the piano playing and Liz DuVal was singing. It was a lively song, but tragic as well; “The Ballad of Frankie and Johnny,” a song about ill-fated lovers, jealousy and death. Love is a bitch, Slate couldn’t help thinking. It always brings suffering of some kind, and sometimes death. The dozen or so men in the place tapped their toes and nodded their heads to the beat of the piano. Slate found the scene somewhat incongruous. Some of the most hardened desperadoes of the southwest, seemingly enchanted by their hostess, enjoying a show like a bunch of school kids. When she was done with her song they clapped and whistled enthusiastically. When she saw Slate standing there, she went over to him.

  “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the table where Mitch Logan and Tom sat. They looked up and nodded. A fat Mexican in an apron came over and Liz called out, “Get Mr. Jackson a steak, Pedro. And a bottle of wine.”

  The Mexican went back to the bar.

  “How do you like your room?” Liz asked.

  “Mighty fine,” Mordecai said. “First rate accommodations for this far out in the wilderness. I’m surprised you have so much water. I took a nice hot scrub.”

  “The only water for a hundred miles,” she said. “My late husband, Jason DuVal, found it. He got lost out here one day, about 20 years ago. A posse chased him out of Fury Creek. He was wounded, and ran into this canyon, planning on making a last stand. A sand storm came up instead, and the posse had to turn back. They figured Jason wouldn’t survive, but he found this spring. He tended his wound, got his strength back, and when he was well enough, he rode into Gila Bend and bought a wagon and some construction materials.”

  The Mexican came back with the wine, and poured a glass for Slate. The others had already been served. Liz continued.

  “He came back and built a small shack,” Liz continued. “He used it as a hideout. Later, after he’d pulled a few more jobs, he hired a rogue carpenter, some of his laborers, and they expanded the place. Jason got the idea of turning it into a hideout for anyone who could pay, and as it turned out, he had plenty of customers.

  “He soon made enough to retire. By the time I met him, all of this was already here. We lived out here for ten years, until Maricopa Bill shot him during a friendly poker game. Jason had one bad fault—he liked to cheat at cards. I killed Bill myself, and have been running the place ever since.”

  “Quite a story,” Slate said.

  “She’s quite a woman,” Mitch Logan said, smiling at Liz. He turned to Slate. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Slate said, lifting his glass. Mitch, Tom, and Liz raised theirs as well, and they all drank.

  “Mitch came along five years ago,” Liz said, smiling. “When Jason died I didn’t think I’d ever need another man…but I was wrong.” She looked at Mitch Logan for a moment with that special look in her eyes. “With Jason it was more like we were just good friends. I never knew what real love was until Mitch came along. He taught me that love is the only thing worth living for. It’s even worth all the hell it puts you through.”

  Slate saw something in the woman’s eyes change. The blue color seemed to turn grey and for a moment he thought he saw a yellow light flicker in them. She sat up straighter.

  Mitch Logan’s hand came up from under the table holding a Colt .45 Peacemaker. “All right,” he said. “Put your hands on the table and don’t move.”

  Slate froze, then put his glass down and laid his palms down on the table.

  “You tracked me here, didn’t you, Slate?” Logan said.

  “How’d you know my name?” Slate asked.

  Logan nodded over to Tom. “Go get it,” he said.

  Tom got up and walked over behind the bar. He reached down and came up with Slate’s rifle. He walked back to the table and laid the carbine down on the table.

  “Colt Model 1855,” Logan said. “They made them during the war, but they weren’t any good. The paper cartridges leaked gunpowder.” He nodded down at the rifle. “But this one’s different. This one’s been modified. It shoots .45 slugs.” He picked the rifle up with one hand and holstered his pistol with the other. He held the rifle with both hands and flipped the gate open. “And look here—they’re not regular .45s. These are made of silver, and there’s only one man uses a rifle like that. Mordecai Slate.”

  Slate smiled.

  “Then you know why I’m here.”

  “I reckon I do.”

  Slate looked over at Liz. “You said you were in love with this man?”

  “That’s right,” she said, taking hold of Logan’s arm.

  Slate looked at the window across the room and saw the full moon shining outside.

  “Then you must know what he is.”

  “I know, Mr. Slate,” she said. “And I don’t care.”

  The butt of the rifle in Logan’s hands swung hard and fast, catching Slate on the side of his hea
d above the temple. Pain seared, and he fell backwards off the chair into a black pool.

  When Slate woke up, Liz was singing Red River Valley. Slate shook his head to clear it. He found himself still on the floor where he’d fallen. His head throbbed with pain and he wished the piano player wouldn’t play so loud, and that Liz would sing something else. There was an infernal howling that shook the walls of the hacienda. He sat up and looked over at where the music was coming from. He saw Liz sitting on top of the upright piano, a glass in her hand, as she sang of the Red River Valley, and the bright eyes and sweet smile that were leaving it. Then Slate froze when he saw the thing standing next to her. It was dressed in Mitch Logan’s clothes, but it wasn’t human. It stood tall on its hind legs, like a man, but it had the face of something half-man, half-wolf. Its body and arms and head were covered in grey hair—the grey hair of the Mexican wolf. Its snout was long and when the mouth opened to howl along with the music, Slate saw the razor-sharp teeth.

  The song was wrapping up and Slate saw that all the other guests of Rancho Diablo, a dozen of them, sitting at the tables and standing at the bar, had all changed too. And together, like a glee chorus of fur-covered demons, they howled the tune along with Liz DuVal. “Just remember the Red River Valleeeyy,” she sang. “And the cowboy who loved you so truuuuue.”

  The wolfish piano player hammered out the final, insane-sounding chords, and the song ended on a crashing crescendo of piano notes and bestial howls that made Slate’s blood turn ice cold.

  “How did you like that song, Mr. Slate?” Liz said. “It has a special meaning around here—The Red River. You know why the red river was red? Because it was filled with blood…a lot of blood, and its been shed everywhere in the west…especially around here.”

  Slate got to his feet. He saw his carbine lying on the table where he’d been sitting. He wondered if he could get to it before the nearest man-wolf pounced on him.

  “I suppose you’re shocked, Mr. Slate,” Liz said. “You didn’t think I knew about Mitch, did you? And you probably never guessed about the others. You’re probably wondering what kind of woman is this Liz DuVal. Is she insane, harboring monsters like this?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Slate said, moving ever so slightly toward the table.

  “It’s love that makes it possible,” she said. “It’s the only thing worth living for, no matter what it brings. I loved Mitch from the first day I laid eyes on him. It was the same for both of us. And I knew that no matter what happened, I would never stop loving him.

  “When the wolf bit him, and he fell ill, I tended him like I would have tended a baby,” she said. “He recovered and seemed all right until the next full moon. It was terrifying. He changed in front of me. I thought he was going to kill me. But he ran off into the desert. When he came back, he told me he wanted to get his things and clear out. I wouldn’t let him. I told him if he left, I’d follow wherever he went. So he stayed. And when the next moon came, it happened again. Only this time, he killed one of the men staying here. I convinced the others it was only a grey wolf that had come down from the mountains. I kept Mitch’s secret. But a secret like that can’t remain a secret forever. Inevitably, everyone who stayed here over the years has been changed. Mitch changed them. And after they were all changed they knew they wouldn’t have it any other way. They all love Mitch as much as I do.”

  She swung down from the piano into Mitch’s hairy arms. “Don’t you find it all so terribly beautiful in a way, and yet so terribly sad at the same time?”

  Slate could see that the woman was literally stark, raving mad. The yellow gleam he had seen in her blue-grey eyes before was now a steady amber glow. He took a slight step toward the gun.

  “Don’t do that, Mr. Slate,” Liz said. “It would be useless. There’s only one possible outcome. And it’s poetic justice in a way; you, a man who has killed so many of their kind, must finally join them.” She nodded. “That’s right, Mr. Slate, I won’t let them kill you. But with just one bite, you will become one of them.”

  “You know I’ll never let that happen,” Slate said.

  “You don’t have any choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.” Slate dove for the table.

  “Get him!” Liz shouted.

  Slate hit the table and grabbed the carbine, but two of the man-wolves pounced on him. One of them was the man called Tom. The weight of the three brought the table crashing to the floor. Slate rolled on his back and swung up with the rifle butt. It smashed hard in Tom’s face, and he let out a roar of pain as his left eye popped from its socket, and he fell backwards. Slate got up on one knee, facing his second attacker, and raised the carbine to the monster’s chest. He pulled the trigger point blank. The silver round blew a bloody hole in the creature’s chest and it fell backward. Slate turned and fired a round into Tom, who had risen to a crouch, about to attack. Tom fell back against the bar and lay still.

  Slate stood up to see ten more of the creatures coming for him.

  “You’ve only got four shots left,” Liz DuVal yelled, over their loud snarling. She stood next to the thing that was Mitch Logan. “Give up, Mr. Slate. Accept your fate!”

  Slate backed up and fired the remaining four rounds. Four of the lycanthropes fell. Six more ran toward him.

  “Get him!” Liz shrieked.

  Logan remained at Liz’s side, watching. Slate dropped the carbine. There was no time to reach for the spare cylinder in his pocket. He pulled the silver-bladed knife from under his jacket. He plunged the long narrow blade into the chest of the first man-wolf as the attackers brought him down. The creature let out a horrendous cry as the blade pierced its heart and Slate felt its body going slack. But sharp teeth and razor sharp claws were everywhere as the other creatures, piled on top of him, seeking the flesh of his throat and limbs. Slate slashed and hacked with the blade like a mad man. Hairy arms were sliced and gashed, pieces of fur and flesh flew away, heads were pierced and shattered, throats gashed and blood spurted everywhere. Covered in blood and gore, he found himself temporarily free of them and jumped to his feet. The six creatures lay panting and bleeding on the floor, wounded but far from dead. Slate couldn’t be sure, but, though he was scratched and cut, he thought that so far, none of the creatures had bitten him.

  Slate dove for his carbine. “Stop him!” Liz shouted. Mitch Logan started for Slate. Slate stood up and smashed the butt of the rifle into his Logan’s face, and he staggered back. The bloody creatures on the floor were on their feet now, their eyes mad with blood lust, their jaws slavering, their bodies quivering with pain and rage from the wounds he had inflicted on them. Slate tore the spent cylinder out of the rifle, reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the spare cylinder. En masse, the man-wolves made their move as Slate slapped in the fresh cylinder and rapid-fired six rounds into them. Amidst roars of agony and spurting blood, they fell to the floor and lay there quivering in death.

  Slate turned and saw the creature that was Mitch Logan only two feet away from him. He threw the empty rifle aside and pulled the derringer from his waistband. Logan sprang for him and he pulled the trigger. The man-wolf stopped, clutching at his chest, and staggered a few steps forward to fall on the floor at Slate’s feet.

  A blood-chilling scream filled the room. It was Liz DuVal, her face white as paper, staring at the lifeless body of the man she loved. “You killed him!” she shrieked. “You killed him!”

  She came closer, her hand reaching out to grab Slate. “The only man I ever really loved!” she said. “He made me feel like more of a woman than I’d ever felt before in my life! I loved him…”

  She stood still a few feet away from Slate and suddenly her body started to quiver and shake. She cried out in pain and Slate saw what was happening to her. She doubled over, clutching her body with her hands, and he saw long nails grow longer, to become claws. He saw the hair follicles grow out of her arms and saw her body double in size as it convulsed and thrashed about. Then she stood
up, and he saw the wolf-head with the insane red eyes and the dripping fangs.

  He raised the derringer and fired the second silver bullet. He watched her fall, reaching out for Logan. Her hideously transformed body toppled over on his, her arms around him. Slate looked out the window at the dark night and the big pale moon that was higher now in the black sky. Far off, the wolves of the Prietas Mountains howled. He looked down at Liz DuVal and Mitch Logan. Their still bodies, locked in an embrace, had returned to human form.

  “Love is a bitch,” Slate said.

  Wolfers

  Matthew Baugh

  We came across the wolf-tracks at mid-afternoon. They crossed a meadow, deep with fresh snow and vanished into the tree-line. Tomás reached them ahead of me and dismounted to study the prints.

  “What do you think?” I asked, riding up to him. My horse seemed skittish as we approached. I sympathized with him; something about this hunt was bothering me too, though I hadn’t been able to figure what.

  “We should go back,” the tracker said. He had learned his mother’s people’s habit of not letting emotions show on his face, but his eyes were terrified.

  I dismounted and crouched next to him. The tracks had been made by a pack of about a dozen, and they were big—much bigger than what you find in New Mexico Territory. Some of the prints were made by wolves on four legs, but a few seemed to be walking on two. A draft of thin mountain air slipped through my coat. It was so cold that it felt like the edge of a knife against my skin. What chilled me worse, though, was the sight of a set of bare human tracks with those of the pack.

  “What do you make of this?” I asked.

  “Yee-naa-gloo-shee,” he replied.

  “I don’t speak Navajo.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then dropped his gaze and studied the tracks as he spoke.