by Carl Hose
He put the gun belt on and did a quick draw, whipping the Colts from their holsters almost faster than the eye could see. He was a little rusty. In the old days, the eye wouldn’t have seen a thing. The gunslinger on the other end of Jake’s Colts would have found himself full of holes and dead before he hit the ground.
Twelve cartridges lay on the table. Jake scooped them up and weighed them in the palm of his hand. They weren’t standard load. These cartridges had cost him his life savings and then some.
He loaded his pistols.
A wolf howled in the distance.
Jake set his coffee on the table and moved to a side window. He could see the corral from there. His cattle were moving about in an agitated fashion, sensing the predator closing in on them.
Jake drank more coffee. He paced back and forth, looked out the window, and drew his guns a couple more times. This would be the last time he used them. He held them in his hands, feeling the familiar weight of the weapons he’d used so many times in the old days, back when he was a gunslinger to beat all.
How many showdowns had there been? How many lives had he taken? He always walked away the winner; tonight would be no different. Tonight would be one more victory for him.
He looked out the window and saw that the moon was high. A full moon casting pale light over frozen earth.
And the wolf was at the door.
Jake sat down at the kitchen table. He slid the Colts from their holsters and laid them on the table, then he dropped his face in his hands and said a little prayer before he confronted the slavering beast.
There wasn’t a lot he could tell you about werewolves, except he knew silver bullets were the only way to kill them. He had plenty of those on hand. Twelve all told, though he expected one would do the trick.
The first spasm wracked his body. Jake did his best to recall the attack in the woods one cold, early morning. He’d been hunting all day when the wolf came at him, foaming at the mouth. He remembered getting off a shot with his Winchester and hitting the beast dead center between its eyes, but it kept coming. It lunged at him, ripping a chunk of bloody flesh from his shoulder.
Jake ran a hand over that same shoulder now, feeling the rise of the scar the wolf had left behind. He felt his muscles twitching beneath his skin and his bones beginning to crack and shift. A scar wasn’t the only thing the wolf had left behind.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Timing was everything. He had to do it when the change was complete, but it had to be done while he had enough of his human will left to make the decision. Once the beast was in control, Jake’s chance to end it all would be lost.
He put his hands on the guns, curling his fingers against each trigger. It was beginning to feel comfortable again, almost like going home.
The bones in his hands cracked, shifted, and reformed. Course dark hair began to grow, his fingers lengthened, and razor claws broke through the flesh.
His face shifted and morphed into something canine. His clothes tore and fell away as his body expanded. Sharp canine teeth broke through his gums.
His sense of smell grew sharper.
The scent of blood was in the air.
The beast was alive.
Jake lifted his six-shooters and held them to his head, one on each side. He felt the struggle within himself. He fought to hold on to his sanity. The beast was alive and kicking, almost in control.
Jake’s fingers (what was left of Jake, anyway) tightened on the triggers.
The wolf howled as it emerged with a vengeance.
The Colts exploded. A silver bullet ripped into Jake’s skull from both sides, smashing through bone and tunneling through brain matter.
The wolf slumped on the table, its thick, hairy arms dangling over the edge.
The Colts fell to the floor.
Blood oozed from the open skull and spread to the edge of the table, dripping onto the floor like syrup.
Outside, the moon hung heavy against a black, cloudless sky.
A wolf howled in the distance, then the night was still again. . . .
Skinwalker
Jim Reed sat up in the darkness, disturbed from his sleep by the sound of barking dogs and agitated livestock. He looked at his wife asleep beside him. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake up.
Jim got out of bed, clad only in his long johns, fetched his rifle from its resting place above the fireplace, and went outside.
A full moon rose high in the night, casting a pale glow over the small farm that Jim had worked ever since bringing his family to Arizona. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to support his family, and by God, he was going to protect it with every last bit of breath in his body.
He held his rifle waist level, caressing the trigger with an itchy finger. Tonight he’d get the son of a bitch that had been coming around to steal his chickens and kill his livestock. Whatever it was, the bastard was sneaky, but tonight Jim would put a stop to it once and for all.
Inside the barn, the horses were going wild, kicking at their stalls. The thing—whatever the hell it was—was still in there.
“Got you now,” Jim muttered.
He took a deep breath and gave the barn door a shove, bringing his old rifle up into firing position.
A coyote crouched just inside the door, snarling, its teeth bared and dripping thick, foamy saliva. Before Jim had a chance to react, the coyote lunged at him, shape shifting in midair, becoming a wickedly advanced version of the beast, complete with oily black fur and eyes the color of fresh blood.
Jim managed to get off one shot, but the bullet went high and tore a hole through the roof of the barn. The oily beast landed on top of him, its weight forcing him down to the ground. His rifle fell from his hands and skittered away, too far for him to reach it.
He did his best to fight the creature off, pushing against the monster with two hands, but the thing was bigger and stronger than any coyote Jim had ever encountered, and he’d shot quite a few of the chicken-stealin’ bastards in his time.
This one was demonic. Its teeth found purchase in Jim’s neck, and with a single jerk of its head, a chunk of bloody meat came away from Jim’s throat. The coyote from Hell chewed, swallowed, and went back for seconds, this time biting off a good portion of Jim’s face.
As the coyote devoured what was left of Jim Reed, a strange thing began to take place. The oily, slobbering beast took on Jim’s features, its bones cracking and shifting, its fur falling away until a perfect rendition of Jim Reed took its place.
* * *
The Jim-Reed thing stumbled back to the cabin completely naked. Jim’s wife was still asleep. The Jim-Reed creature climbed into bed next to her and began to grope around between her legs.
“Jim . . .” she protested, moving his hand away as she stirred from her sleep.
The Jim-Reed creature made a noise in the back of its throat—a deep guttural sound that frightened her. His hand returned to its previous post and his fingers began to invade her there, pushing in with no concern for her comfort.
“Jim, please . . .” she insisted.
He crawled on top of her, forcing her legs wide as he took her violently, pushing himself all the way inside her, grunting as he thrust himself in and out.
Emily lay silent and still, letting him have his way with her. This wasn’t like Jim at all, even when he’d had too much to drink. She’d talk it over with him later, but she was afraid she’d wake the children if she made any further protests.
Finally the Jim-Reed duplicate rolled off her. Emily lay sobbing in the dark.
The creature rose and left.
Emily listened. She heard him come back into the bedroom not long after. Her back was to him, but she felt his eyes boring holes into her. What was it he wanted now? Was he back for seconds?
She rolled over and was about to say as much, but she saw him standing beside the bed with his rifle pointing at her.
“Jim, no . . .”
His face was expressionless. He pull
ed the trigger, and Emily’s head exploded in a shower of blood and skull fragments.
“Daddy!”
The creature jerked its head toward the loft where the children slept. The oldest, Mark, just this week ten years old, was looking over the edge of the loft, panic stricken.
The creature swung the rifle around and fired. The bullet caught little Mark in the chest and sent him sprawling backward, right next to his sister Bethany, who was just starting to come out of a sound sleep.
The Jim-Reed thing climbed the ladder to the loft. Bethany was kneeling beside her brother, sobbing. Her doleful eyes met the glazed eyes of the creature in Jim Reed’s skin. Her chubby tear-stained cheeks were framed by pigtails.
The creature shot her.
* * *
“Real mess what happened out there,” Roy Patterson said, chugging the last of his beer. “Never woulda thought ol’ Jim Reed would do somethin’ like that.”
The barkeep drew another round and set it in front of Roy. “Yeah, damn shame,” he said. “Sheriff said he found Jim nekkid with his family layin’ all around him. Real sick stuff. Place stank like coyote piss. Figure he’ll be swingin’ from a rope by the end of the week.”
“Ain’t soon enough, you ask me,” Roy said.
“Nobody’s askin’ you,” the sheriff said, sidling up to the bar beside Roy. “And don’t go gettin’ any ideas about takin’ the law into your own hands.”
Jeremiah Steele had been sheriff of Gila City for five years. He was well over six feet, wide shouldered, and tough as his name implied.
“Now, Sheriff, you know I ain’t a fightin’ man . . .” Roy drawled.
“I sure do know that, Roy,” Jeremiah said. He confiscated Roy’s full beer. “Tell ya what else I know. I know you got a big mouth, and while it’s true you don’t like to do the dirty work, you got a knack for stirrin’ up other folks ’til somebody does it for ya, and that ain’t gonna happen either.”
Jeremiah drained Roy’s glass of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, set the mug back in front of Roy, and said, “We clear on my meanin’?”
Roy nodded dumbly. “Un-huh,” he muttered.
Jeremiah left the saloon. He felt better now that he’d had that little conversation. Last thing he needed was Roy stirring up a lynch mob, which was exactly what would’ve happened if he’d let nature take its course.
“Sheriff Steele,” came a voice filled with quiet urgency.
Jeremiah was just about to step into his office. He paused, his hand halfway to the doorknob, and looked around. An Indian stood at the corner of the building, out of sight of anyone who might pass by on the street.
“Help you?” Jeremiah asked, sizing the Indian up.
“I am Manaba,” the Indian said. “You have a man in there?” He indicated the sheriff’s office with a nod.
“What do you know about that?” Jeremiah asked.
“Only that he is not what he seems,” Manaba replied.
“That right?” Jeremiah asked. “And just what the hell is he?”
“He is demon with coyote blood—what we of the Navajo people call a skinwalker. I know this because he is my brother Dezba.”
“Your brother, huh? He don’t look like a redskin to me.”
“Take my word, Sheriff. To keep him will only bring grief. Let me take him off your hands.”
Jeremiah took tobacco from his shirt pocket and began rolling a smoke. “You’ve plum lost your mind if you think I’d hand over a white man to you, even if he is a cold-blooded killer,” Jeremiah said.
He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and took a long drag, letting the smoke trail from his mouth as he continued. “I suggest you ride outta here and leave the law to me.”
“It’s your funeral, Sheriff.”
Manaba turned and disappeared behind the building.
“Crazy-ass Injun,” Jeremiah muttered, going into his office.
* * *
Deputy Haggard sat at his desk, feet propped up, his hat pulled over his eyes. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and he was snoring.
The skinwalker sat silently watching from its cell. The creature wanted to leave this body, wanted to eat and become new again. The beast picked up a tin cup full of water and hurled it at the bars of its cage. The clattering caused Haggard to nearly fall from his chair as he sprang up.
“What the—”
The skinwalker grinned at him.
“You sum bitch,” Haggard said. “I’ll come in there and kick your ass ten ways to Hell if ya pull that shit again.”
“Fuck you,” the skinwalker said.
Haggard sat up straight. “What the hell did you say?”
The skinwalker didn’t respond.
“Answer me, you sum bitch,” Haggard demanded. “Don’t make me come in there, you hear me?”
The skinwalker moved to the bars of the cell, wrapped its hands around them, and stared directly at Haggard, who suddenly felt uncomfortable. He scratched his chin and tried to hold the gaze of the man he thought to be Jim Reed.
“Why’d you do that to your family?” he asked.
“Same reason I’ll do it to yours,” the skinwalker said. “I felt like it.”
“You sick sum bitch,” Haggard bellowed, drawing his Schofield as he lunged at the cell. “I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”
He shoved his gun through the cell bars and jammed it up under the skinwalker’s chin. The skinwalker reached through the bars and latched onto Haggard’s balls. Suddenly Haggard saw the world spinning around him. He tried to scream but no sound came out. A flash of white light exploded in his eyes.
The skinwalker snapped the Schofield from Haggard’s hand and let Haggard fall to his knees. The creature reached through the bars and grabbed Haggard by his hair, dragging him close. He shoved the Schofield through the bars and into Haggard’s mouth, pulling the trigger almost at once. The bullet exited the back of the deputy’s skull in a spray of blood and bone fragments.
The skinwalker retrieved the ring of keys from Haggard’s belt and let itself out of the cell, stepping over the deputy’s lifeless body.
The only sign of life outside came from the saloon across the way, where piano music and drunken shouts drifted into the night.
That was where the skinwalker needed to be.
A man came stumbling out of the saloon, nearly falling down the steps leading to the street. He saw who he took to be Jim Reed crossing the street, heading in his direction, and did a double take.
“Ain’t you supposed to be—”
The skinwalker reached the man before he finished his sentence. The creature grabbed him by the throat and squeezed until the drunken man’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and blood ran down his face.
The skinwalker tossed the dead man aside and continued into the saloon, shape shifting into demonic coyote form as it went through the batwing doors.
Inside the saloon, men drank and played cards, loose women danced, and the barkeep kept the beer and whiskey flowing freely.
The skinwalker, now in demonic coyote form, stalked into the saloon, snarling viciously. Most of the patrons were too drunk to notice the stench of the animal, and only a handful even saw the beast.
Frank Mason was the first to take notice. He drew his pistol and took a shot. The gunshot rang out above the noise. The piano player stopped playing. There was a brief moment of silence before chaos broke out. Some men drew their guns, the dancing girls ran for cover, and the barkeep ducked behind the bar and came up with a sawed-off shotgun.
The coyote lunged at Frank, taking him to the floor, sinking its incisors into Frank’s jugular vein.
“Somebody shoot it,” a female yelled above the ruckus.
More than a dozen gunshots exploded in the saloon, but mainly the men ended up shooting one another. The demon coyote moved quick, taking a chunk of Frank’s throat with it. The creature whipped around to face the crowd of drunks, licking its bloody snout as it surveyed its surround
ings.
The demon coyote lunged, moving with preternatural speed, tearing through one man after another. Its teeth worked with precision, ripping through flesh, tearing out throats, and leaving a trail of bloody carnage in its wake.
More gunshots rang out. People scattered for cover, some managed to get outside. Three men moved in a semi-circle around the beast, but the creature lunged and snapped one man’s knee in half. The other two made a dash for the door. The beast lunged and caught one of them, severing a good portion of the man’s face with its powerful jaws.
Silence.
The skinwalker stood amid the carnage in triumph . . .
. . . and then a gunshot shattered the silence.
A bullet grazed the coyote’s flank. The demonic coyote jerked around in the direction the shot had originated from. One of the blonde dancing girls stood on the stairs leading to the second floor, a tiny Derringer clutched in her hand. A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the gun’s barrel.
The coyote went after her. She dropped the gun, turned, and hurried up the stairs. A narrow hallway ran the length of the second floor, rooms on both sides. The blonde ran into the first room and tried shutting the door. The coyote threw its weight against the other side. The impact of the beast crashing into the door sent it flying open, knocking the girl back.
The beast leaped into the room and sprang at the girl, knocking her on the bed. The wild animal threw itself on top of her. She struggled with the creature while it tore at her clothing, until she lay nearly naked on her stomach, pinned beneath the snarling creature’s weight, clutching at the bed sheets in an effort to drag herself out from under the beast.
The creature had its way with her. Afterward, it began to feed on her, ripping her flesh with its powerful jaws, slopping her blood with its tongue, eating until its coyote form began to change again . . .
* * *
Jeremiah knew something was terribly wrong the moment he rode back into town. He’d ridden out to the Ridgeway farm more than an hour ago to see about some missing cattle. He didn’t expect they’d ever be found, but the trip was worth it just to get a home-cooked meal from old lady Ridgeway. He’d never been one to pass up good food for any reason.
