She’d been drifting since then, drifting west, drifting after rumors that might lead her to . . .
Prudence forced herself to think about what she was seeking, forced herself to accept.
To lead her to what Jake had become.
Standing under the hot sun, hearing Trick shift nervously under the packs, Prudence faced the memories.
She and Jake had gotten wind of a town where cattle buyers were congregating. She’d never been quite sure whether the buyers had come because the cattle were being driven there or whether the cattle were being driven there to meet the buyers. What she did know was that for a couple of weeks there was plenty of work, even for a couple of scraggly drifters.
Prudence had gotten work washing dishes and chopping stuff in the kitchen of the railroad hotel. Jake—who dreamed of owning a ranch someday—had gotten a job keeping the gathered herds in order. After weeks in the saddle, the cowhands were eager for the delights of civilization, even as offered by a rough-edged nowhere town like this one.
That their delights included women was a given, so Prudence kept back in the kitchen. Days had passed. The buying and selling ended. The loaded trains rattled back toward Chicago.
The cowboys, their pockets fat with severance pay, remained, wilder than ever. Jake’s work, however, had evaporated when the cattle were shipped out, so he and Prudence decided to move on.
Had the cowboys tracked them or had the meeting been chance? Prudence didn’t know. Her memories of that terrible night began with waking to the sound of coarse laughter, the smell of tobacco and whiskey. Of Jake’s voice, superficially tough and angry. Trembling beneath the anger was a thread of fear.
Prudence had been jerked from her bedroll by a rough hand. Still half-asleep, she’d staggered, trying to catch her balance. Instead, she’d fallen into the arms of the man who had pulled her up. He started pawing at her breasts, pushing aside the fabric of the loose cotton nightshirt she wore for sleeping.
“Leave my sister alone!” Jake had shouted.
The cowboys had only laughed. Prudence fought to get loose, froze when she realized her struggles only excited her captors.
And Jake . . . Jake had lost control. The moon was full, and but for that they might both be dead now: raped, anonymous corpses, if ever they were found.
There was a reason that the Bledsloe ancestors had immigrated to the New World. There was a reason that once they got there, they moved to lands at the fringes of human habitation—lands the white man didn’t want, but the red man had been driven away from.
There was a reason, and that reason was that the Bledsloes were not entirely human.
All across the world, legends tell of those who can take on the forms of animals. In Europe, that animal is most often a wolf or bear. Werebear met with some toleration, even respect, but werewolves met with none at all.
Jake had changed. He had not become a wolf all at once. With almost human hands, Jake had grabbed the six-gun from a man who had been laughing at him a moment before. With almost human hands, Jake had shot that man dead.
But there had been five men there. Even if the gun had been fully loaded, even if Jake had been able to make each bullet pay, several of the men were clustered so close to Prudence that Jake could not fire at them without risking harm to her. Instead, he had sprung forward, more and more a gigantic wolf with every moment. He had leapt, torn, and bitten.
He had swallowed human blood and eaten human flesh.
Prudence had been too involved in her own battles to interfere. In her the wolf also rose, but in her case—perhaps because she had no fear for Jake’s safety—the impulse that carried her was one of flight.
A slim, grey she-wolf had torn through the flimsy nightshirt, had run for safety. As dawn was greying the eastern sky, a frightened girl, naked but strangely unscratched by the brambles she pushed through, had made her way back to the camp.
Jake was gone. Five dead men lay in their camp. Blood splattered everything.
As she gathered what she could salvage of their gear, Prudence had remembered one of the earliest lessons her mother had taught her.
“At no time ever, even if you are starving—especially if you are starving—should you eat either the flesh of a wolf or that of a human. The one will rob you of your ability to become human, but the other will be worse. It will rob you of your sanity.”
Later, Prudence had learned other things. Depending on the phase of the moon, a werewolf—even in human form—gains tremendous strength, including immunity from most physical injury, although not from disease. When the moon is full, only blessed weapons or silver can harm a werewolf.
Prudence had tested this herself, as had, she supposed, nearly every werewolf child. She had liked running as a wolf, enjoyed feeling invulnerable. Perhaps her name influenced her, though. She was prudent. She did not care for the lack of control, for the tug of the moon on her sensibilities.
Jake, though . . . Jake had liked being stronger. That was one reason he had been determined to go west. He knew that he was stronger than average. He didn’t want to hide when he could win a place where what he did would be above question.
And Prudence, ever prudent, ever responsible, had gone with him. Yet, in the end, she had been the reason catastrophe had come to her brother.
“Jake . . .” she sighed aloud remembering, sorrowing. To her astonishment, she was answered.
“Hello, Pru.”
Jake’s familiar voice came from the shadow of a dark red rock. Prudence turned to face it, shading her eyes with her left hand.
“I can feed you on something better than rotted sheep,” the voice, clearly Jake’s, continued. “Come along. I’d love to show you my place. I’ve settled here now.”
Prudence let her right hand drop to the gun on her hip. Jake laughed.
“I don’t think so, Pru. I can smell the silver from here. That’s something the folks never told you, did they? They said we go insane. There’s a little of that, at first, as you adjust. Then . . .”
Jake stepped out into the sunlight. He wore battered jeans, frayed from mid-calf on down and a cowboy hat. Nothing else. His feet were bare and his skin, although sun-bronzed, showed no signs of burning.
“Then you’re stronger than ever. The moon’s power is with you all the time. What they call insanity is just the body adjusting to sharper senses, to the ability to claim the wolf at any time, to becoming something pretty close to a god.”
Prudence took an involuntary step away from her brother. Jake looked healthy, but not quite the same. His shoulders were broader, his body hair a bit thicker. His eyes—once a pale brown much like her own—were yellow. He wore his hair longer, touching his shoulders. Something about the way it grew and caught the light reminded Prudence of fur rather than hair.
“You’ve settled here,” she echoed, catching on something safe to say.
“I made a friend and he convinced me this was the place for me. I knew you’d been tracking me, figured you’d catch up. Heard Nathan Yaz saying something last night, and knew you were here.”
“Nathan Yaz?”
“My friend is Navajo. He’s what they’d call a skinwalker, a witch. That’s why he hasn’t introduced himself to the locals. The way the Navajos treat those they figure are witches makes what the Salem folk did seem mild. In Salem, at least, a witch got a trial.”
Jake smiled a slow, easy smile. Were his teeth whiter, the canines a bit sharper? Prudence thought they were.
Jake made a wide, inviting gesture. “Come along, Sis. Gather up your horses. I’ve a place for them out of the sun.”
Prudence went. She’d been seeking Jake. It seemed foolish to leave when she’d finally found him, but she sure wasn’t certain what she was going to do now that she had.
She’d expected to find Jake raving mad. In her thoughts Jake had already been good as dead. What she’d been doing was going to put down a mad dog—or wolf. Again, her mother’s words came to her.
“We’re
responsible for our renegades. We alone know their weaknesses. Alive they soil the reputations of both our communities and those of the wild wolves. We must put them down lest they do more harm.”
But this . . . Prudence didn’t know what to think of this Jake. He seemed much like himself, but improved.
Jake’s new home was in one of those surprising little canyons that crop up even in the badlands: an oasis of scrub growth and tall grass. The grass was drying with late summer, but still succulent enough that Buck whickered appreciatively.
“Surprised the sheepherders haven’t found this place,” Prudence said, trying to sound conversational. If Jake’s sense of smell was as improved as he claimed, he’d smell her apprehension, but she had her own self-respect to consider.
A male voice spoke from the shadows. The cracked notes of old age did not disguise the Navajo accent.
“The Navajo will not come here,” the old man said. “Not only is there no good grazing between here and their sheep camps, but it is said that a witch lives in these rocks.”
From under a jutting ledge, the speaker emerged. His browned skin was deeply lined and his hair iron grey. He wore what was rapidly becoming Navajo traditional dress. Trousers, shirt, vest, and round-crowned hat might have been worn by any cowhand, but the wide sandcast silver and turquoise concho belt and the broad squash-blossom necklace were too large and gaudy for most American women, much less for an American man.
Prudence swallowed a derisive snort.
Your partner guards himself with silver, Jake. Have you noticed, or is this skinwalker hiding his armament in plain sight under the guise of “native dress?”
Jake paused and made a waving gesture with his hand, as if making introductions at some society function.
“Prudence, meet my partner, Clyde Begay. Clyde, this is my sister, Prudence Bledsloe.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Begay,” Prudence said politely.
The old man narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. His response was much more ambiguous.
“Your brother has spoken much of you, Miz Bledsloe.”
Jake cut in. “Pru, bring the horses over here. That sun’s too damn hot.”
Prudence obeyed. The space under the ledge provided good shelter for the horses. Behind it, a wide- mouthed cave sighed out cooler air.
Buck and Trick were happy to settle into a pole corral under the ledge. There was no evidence that Jake kept horses of his own, but he’d cut fodder and built this corral, another bit of evidence that he had indeed expected her.
Jake led Prudence into the cave. He motioned around, pleased as if he was showing her a mansion.
“Not bad, huh? This time of day the light from outside does us fine. We use the space under the ledge sort of like you’d use a porch in a house. For night we have both lanterns and candles.”
The cave wasn’t bad, especially when compared to some camps she and Jake had shared. Bedrolls were stacked neatly to one side. Water dripped from a seep. A pottery basin collected the precious fluid. Jars lined up nearby showed that the occupants stored the excess.
Jake offered Prudence water. Prudence opened up her pack and brought out some of the grub she had brought. While beans were warming, Jake started in on his tale.
“After that night, you know the one I mean, I got to admit, I didn’t feel so good. I was worried about you, but my head was going six directions at once. I cut and ran until I couldn’t run anymore. Days went by. I guess I hunted along the way, but it was a while before I could think straight.”
Prudence nodded. This part matched her own deductions. She’d trailed Jake by the tales of a rabid wolf slaughtering sheep or other small domestic animals. Once a child had been killed, a boy of about ten, who’d been sent out to look for a wandering heifer.
“After a while,” Jake said, “I started being able to think again. I was scouting out a place where I could settle in and figure out what to do when I met Clyde. Now, Clyde was a prominent warrior during his people’s wars with the white man. He’s never come to terms with their eventual surrender. Clyde showed me this cave and shared with me his vision for the future.”
He paused. Prudence asked the expected question.
“Vision?”
“Clyde wants a world where the Navajo are again mighty. For that, we need war. War suits me just fine. When people are fighting each other, they don’t have time for chasing spooks.”
He looked at her, seeking approval for this bit of wisdom. Prudence made a noncommital noise. Jake went on.
“Me and Clyde work well together. Clyde has been studying the folk around here, white and red. He gives me suggestions as to who I can attack in order to create maximum tension and distrust.
“The Navajo’s fear that there is a powerful witch among them keeps them from coming after me. It also creates division within their own community. The usual thing is to seek a witch among your own people. Since Clyde and me are outsiders, they’re chasing shadows.
“Meanwhile, the white men are eager to blame the Navajo. Some of that eagerness is fear. Some is greed. There are those among the Navajo, like Nathan Yaz, who have aroused envy by doing too well. He not only has orchards and sheep, but the love of a beautiful woman.”
Jake gave a hoarse, barking laugh.
“I honestly don’t care whether they act out of fear or greed or a sense of justice. What matters is that the whites will eventually break their treaty with the Navajo. When they do, the Navajo will fight back. Other reservation Indians will hear about the treaty breaking. There is a good chance that widespread unrest will follow.”
Jake spread his hands. “And then, sister, people like you and me will have a refuge. It will be far better than holing up in the Smokey Mountains, jumping at shadows. In the midst of chaos, no one will notice our comings and goings. Only in settled times and places are we endangered. On this frontier, surrounded by war, we will thrive. And we will be in a position to spread the chaos, to maintain the war.”
“For a time,” Prudence agreed. “Then it will be for us as it was for the Indians. More and more white men will come from overseas, eager for new lands, willing to fight for those lands. We will be defeated.”
“I’ve thought about that, too,” Jake said. “Take a look at the beginnings of my new army.”
He gave a whimpering call. From a darker place at the back of the cave, five little shadows resolved into five little humans, five little humans who smelled of rotting meat. Two were white, the other three Navajo. They emerged from what must have been a sub-cave, blinking sleepily at the light.
“You thought I had eaten them, didn’t you?” Jake said proudly. “I have not. I’m turning them into werewolves just like you and me.”
“But those who are turned die or go insane!” Prudence protested.
Jake grinned happily, looking over at the five little monstrosities as if they were his own children. “The skinwalker helped me. His traditional magic involves changing shape—changing his skin—but he can only do so for a short period of time. He was fascinated that not only can werewolves take on the wolf form, we can pass the ability on to others.
“After hearing my story, Clyde had a thought. He said that since I had gained new abilities after I had eaten human flesh, perhaps the eating of human flesh would help these little ones to stabilize their new abilities.
“We made mistakes at first. My first project was a boy about ten. Even after I had gifted him with my breath, he refused to eat the meat, not even when we starved him. After that we chose younger children. They had far fewer scruples. They will be the new Clan Bledsloe, Prudence. With them we will win a part of the west to be our own.”
Prudence knew what would come next. It was written in the cynical twist of the Navajo witch’s smile.
“I’m offering you a chance to join us,” Jake said. “We’ve always been close. You’re smart. You’re determined. You’d be an asset.”
“You know I’m carrying silver,” Prudence said, “and you kno
w what that means.”
“You came looking for me,” Jake said, “thinking you might need to kill a crazy werewolf. Now, though, you see I’m not crazy.”
“Easy as that you’d trust me? Let me join your pack?”
“Not quite,” Clyde interrupted, “that easy. There must be a test. When skinwalkers initiate one into our secrets, we demand they prove their sincerity by killing someone. That is what we ask of you.”
Prudence nodded, trying to hide the creeping dread that chilled her entrails.
“Kill someone, like some trail drifter?”
Jake laughed, a warm, friendly sound. “Oh, no, Pru. We don’t just kill at random. I told you. We have an agenda. I think it would be good if you killed someone whose death would stir up trouble between the whites and Navajo. Maybe Reverend Printer. He’s a popular man.”
“I have a better idea,” Clyde said. “Kill the girl, April March. Later, kill the boy, Vern Yaz. One death would be seen as vengeance for the other.”
“Beautiful!” Jake said. He looked at Prudence and added generously, “You can just kill the girl. I’ll kill the boy. Better he be shot and a white man’s prints seen in the area. The girl, though, she should be torn up. Savages mutilate their victims. Every white knows that, but the Navajo will feel unjustly blamed. Damn, Clyde, you’re smart.”
“I am old and perhaps have gained a little wisdom,” the Navajo said.
Prudence swallowed a surge of bile.
“When?”
“Moon’s rising full,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Be easier for you to make the change then. Why don’t we set it up for as soon as can be?”
Prudence thought about silver bullets and full moons.
“All right,” she said. “How do we get that girl out at night?”
Getting April March to come out proved to be almost too easy. Clyde Begay went into Eli Mercantile ostensibly to trade for a blanket. When Mr. Eli’s back was turned, Clyde slipped April a note written by Prudence, asking the girl to come to the stand of cottonwoods down by the stream that night, and not to mention the meeting to anyone.
A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters Page 3
