Snapping, snarling, growling hideously, the black and the gray threshed down the slope. The two were a tangle of legs and muzzles, of bushy tails and hard, whipcord muscles.
They fought as wolves fight—fang to fang and claw to claw. Rage and murderous hate flamed in Mulvaney’s wolf-brain. His man-brain looked askance, observed what he did, and approved.
The night was made fearful with their hate. Their snarling rage struck silence and terror to the tiny denizens of the field. The moon and the stars looked on impassively.
Mulvaney sought with murderous fangs, the throbbing jugular of his enemy. His jaws ached for the feel of thick, hot blood spilling over them. Gnashing, teeth bit into the black wolf’s tender gorge. The beast panted frenziedly, clawed at Mulvaney’s ribs and flanks. The gray wolf sank its fangs deeper into hot flesh—and then he went spinning bewilderedly end-over-end, to land crashing a dozen yards away.
The were-people whimpered. A voice croaked hysterically.
“The Master! The Master!”
Confused with shock, bruised and gasping, the wolf-shape of Kenneth Mulvaney drew trembling legs under itself. The solid earth seemed to roll maddeningly, and he whined with pain. The thunderous symphony pounding in his brain receded and grew faint. He lifted his muzzle and scented fiercely for the black wolf.
A biting, acrid odor dug at his sensitive nostrils—the reek of glowing sulphur. And then he saw the Shape!
It was cloaked with the Blackness and the Stink of the Pit, evil of eye and visage, black, grim, utterly hideous. The hair rose on the gray wolf’s back. A snarl gnarled deep in the panting chest. Purplish lightnings flickered in the gloom that clothed the hateful Shape.
The Demon’s silence was its most utter terror. Mulvaney struggled against the fear that ate at his heart. The Monster spoke. The solitude resounded with the whiplash of its voice.
“Neither man nor were-beast can destroy me, Kenneth Mulvaney! I have tested you and found you strong. Strength be in the evil you shall do for me! In my stead, from now on you shall lead the pack—and shall render unto me these souls, one by one as death shall claim them. It was for this purpose I sent the call of the Valley into your being where you roamed Outside and did not know yourself!”
The gray wolf snarled its hatred.
“Hate is my strength,” the Prince of Evil derided him. “All my loyal subjects hate me. They serve me well, nonetheless. But remember—I hold your souls in bondage. When you shall die, they shall be rendered unto me and my Kingdom of the Damned!
“This is your portion—of you who are the descendants of the witch-folk of eld. Through the years, I have gathered this band together in my Valley, to increase and become strong—to battle the race of men for supremacy.
“The ancient practices shall return. The ancient laws shall be in order. Not in this century nor in the next. But by and by. Eternity is not too long to wait for my vengeance!”
The Shape fell silent, a brooding, awful silhouette against the sleeping wolf of a stone mountain that jutted into the star-spangled sky at the head of the Valley. The sooty lips moved again.
“Now, Kenneth Mulvaney, begone with your shadowless curs! You’ve work to do tonight!”
Whimpering with fright, the pack broke and fled. No less defiant, the grim gray wolf retreated down the slope. And with him cowered the white she-wolf.
When Mulvaney looked again, the Shape had disappeared. The night was clear and cool. From far away, his furry ears caught the tinkle of water splashing in the creek.
He understood now. He knew he was a were-wolf descended of were-wolves. The circumstance of his parents’ death was no longer a mystery. Nor was the soulless look in his eyes and in those of these others without explanation—nor the lack of shadows to follow them. They were all of the same tribe—they all bore the taint of Evil.
The thought was a hateful one. What unholy pact with Satan had made this possible? Through how many misty aeons of time had it continued in force? Whose dark deeds and hellish desires had brought about this unwilling bondage upon generations unborn?
These were questions Mulvaney might never answer. The truth was sealed with the silence of Time. He knew instinctively that the were-beast glorified in its unclean condition. Some strain of the human in him found it repulsive. He would find a way to deliver them of their detestable slavery.
But how? Could they return to the state of men and defeat the purpose of the Beast by refusing to serve? The thought was a vain one. The pack had gathered around him, and the moon shone pitilessly down. The ground under each heaving belly was bright with its glow. The were-folk had no shadows—and no souls.
“Tonight we drink—or we die,” spoke a grizzled old wolf. “Can you lead us to fresh blood, Kenneth Mulvaney?”
Mulvaney was aware of the thirst that had begun to torment his own throat. The moon had passed the zenith and time was short. They must make the kill before dawn; it was their portion—their Fate.
The problem confronting Mulvaney could not be solved before they had fed—as feed they must. Into his wolf-brain crept an image of the cattle that had grazed contentedly in the fields. But they belonged to the villagers. It was senseless to kill them and rob themselves.
The gray wolf threw back its head, muzzle to the moon, and howled. The keening cry released hot excitement into his feverish veins. The blood of the witch-folk of old Ireland awoke in him, exultant and maddening. He departed toward the nearest pine-clad slope at a swift, easy lope.
At his flank ran the white she-wolf, fierce joy and pride blazing in her eyes. Behind them streamed the wolf-pack, silent as shadows, shadowless as they sped.
* * * *
The cowboy on the paint pony halted at the edge of the sleeping herd and rolled a cigarette. His companion was a somber shadow in the moonglow.
“Fust time ridin’ night range ever gave me the willies,” he growled. “How ’bout you, Larry?”
Larry shrugged, tilted back his sombrero and applied a match flame to the twisted end of his cigarette.
“Dunno, Joe. You’re a nervous type.” He inhaled vigorously. The glowing tip of the cigarette lighted his lean face with a ruddy flare.
Joe’s horse moved restively, swaying the man in the saddle.
“A funny business,” he said.
“Yeah.” Larry pondered the situation. “The old man and the padre has got their heads together. Maybe the padre’s right—I dunno.”
“In which case,” opined Joe gloomily, “we oughta be allowed to shoot. If’n they come at all.”
“The padre claims they’re bound to. Full moon, he says.” Larry reflected on the words he had heard from Father d’Arcy. “Here’s what he said. There was a were-wolf—like one o’ these—raidin’ a village up in Canada, where he had a parish. They tracked it down an’ shot it with a silver bullet. Turned out to be the town’s leadin’ banker. Seems like the critters turn back to their human shape when they’re kilt.”
“Were-wolves!” Joe snorted. “Mangy, ol’ timber wolves, I says! Didn’t I see ’em streakin’ for the woods las’ winter after they’d got into the stock-corrals an’ chewed up thirty head o’ fine steer beef?”
“I ain’t passin’ no opinions,” Larry returned calmly. “I’m tellin’ you what the padre says. Mebbe he’s right an’ mebbe he ain’t! We ain’t to shoot, anyway—’less they attack us. In which case, we got silver in our guns.”
“I know,” Joe growled distrustfully. “We’re just to douse ’em with this water the padre blessed.” He patted the moist flank of a water-bag slung to his saddle-horn.
“That’s how it is,” Larry agreed. “Chase ’em back, the padre says. Only back to where, he didn’t say. The old man backs him up. Guess they’re figgerin’ something they don’t want ever’body to know about.” He tossed the end of his cigarette upon
the hoof-churned earth and wheeled his pony.
“Keep a sharp eye, Joe. S’long.”
The paint pony circled slowly back, while the rider sang softly to lull the herd.
* * * *
There was nothing human in the spirit of Kenneth Mulvaney as he loped across the timbered ridges with the white she-wolf at his side. The silence was a tonic to him. The keen scent of pine-balsam mingling with the dank odor of rotting mould tingled in his flaring nostrils. He ran with lean muzzle thrust eagerly forward, the scent of hot blood a maddening urge.
A small creature of the forest sensed the coming of the ghost-wolves. It cocked tiny ears, eyes bright with fear. The gray wolf sprang. Great jaws crunched on tender flesh and fragile bone. The wolf, took its first taste of blood, while the white-furred she danced eagerly and licked at his scarlet muzzle with impatient tongue.
Hunger inspired of Hell drove him on. The scent of cattle in the draw tingled in his nostrils.
The wolf-pack skulked at the edge of the forest, wormed through tall grass, plunged snarling among the sleeping herd.
The frightened beasts leaped erect. Hooves churned the earth, horns tossed against the sky. Dust rose in a cloud to obscure the moon.
Fierce, primal joy flooded Mulvaney’s senses, and he made the kill with his white-furred mate leaping at his side.
A man’s voice shouting brought him with a snarl from the unholy feast. He crouched, ready to spring, eyes blazing at the horse and rider bearing down upon him.
The rider passed, horse’s hooves thundering, and slashed at the water-bag slung to the pommel of his saddle. In midspring, Kenneth Mulvaney felt the gush of the fluid in his face. Burning rivulets seared down his forelegs.
Eau bénite! Powerful muscles sent him tumbling from the menace of the water the priest had blessed. He fled to the forest and rolled in the cool earth to soothe the agony of his burns. Then he streaked for home.
Full-fed, the pack loped through the forest behind him. At his flank, the white she-wolf whimpered in sympathy of his pain.
The pain had cleared the hellish blood-lust from Mulvaney’s brain. He calculated coldly, returned to his original problem. There must be a way!
He thought of exorcism and rejected it. They would need the services of the priest at Lastwater. But he wouldn’t do. The presence of holy water showed his hand behind the readiness of the ranchers. Mulvaney could not know the futility of exorcism as Father d’Arcy understood it. The priest had another thought in mind.
The moon sunk low in the west while they ran. The day would break before long.
At the edge of the timber ringing their own valley, the gray wolf halted the pack and scented the breeze. The gray-furred muzzle twitched at the hateful odor cloying the air. It was the smell of men—men between the pack and the water they must gain before dawn!
* * * *
It had been clever of the ranchers to enter the valley while its people were gone. For a long time they had waited in the shadow of the cottonwoods. At Sam Carver’s back, the dark waters of Were Creek gurgled musically. In front of him, the westward slanting rays of the moon shed a dim radiance over the silent fields of Were Valley. The lanky man at his side uttered a low-voiced curse.
“What’s eatin’ you, Slim?”
“Damned if I know, boss,” replied the man who used to trap wolves for the bounty. “’Spect it’s ants!”
He backed cautiously out of the undergrowth and lay down a yard farther away.
“We have to wait all night?” he complained.
“The padre says they’ll come back before dawn.”
“How do we know they will?”
“Reckon the padre’s about right, don’t you? We find the whole damn town deserted. It’s enough to give you the creeps!”
“If it’s so certain they was goin’ to attack the herd tonight, why didn’t we trap ’em there?”
“It’s a problem we got to solve all at once, Slim. Most of ’em would have got away. This way, we’ve got ’em all. They have to reach this creek before sunup. It’s the only water for miles around.”
He peered sharply at the somber forest on the slope. Slim started to move again.
“Hold it, Slim!”
The lanky cowboy wriggled closer, shoving the muzzle of his rifle into the clear. “What’s up?”
“There—at the edge o’ the timber! See anything?”
Slim peered earnestly through the baffling light.
“There—somethin’ white moving in the woods!”
Slim cursed softly.
“Them’s wolves, old-timer!”
He readied his piece. Carver restrained him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait’ll they get in the clear. It’s nearly mornin’ an’ they’re desperate for the water. We can wait.”
The slim cowboy relaxed and made a sound like a sleepy owl. Another owl answered from upstream, and one from lower down the valley.
“The boys are ready, boss.”
“All right. Give ’em the signal to fire when I say so.”
The old rancher stared hard at the fleeting shapes that skulked at the forest’s edge. The wolves appeared to be nervous and restless. A blot detached itself from the shadow of the woods and trotted a few yards into the open. A white shape joined it, and the two stood sniffing.
“Damn!” growled the rancher. “They’ve got our scent!”
One by one, the wolves began to leave the shelter of the timber. There seemed to be hundreds of them to the breathlessly waiting ranchers. The mass moved cautiously down the grassy slope.
Carver put a hand into his shirt and brought out a mirror. Briefly the glass caught the gleam of the moon.
“What’s that fer?” whispered his companion.
Carver tilted the glass toward the approaching pack, craned his neck to peer into it. He had a difficult time registering the image, but he saw finally. He passed the mirror to the cowboy with a trembling hand.
“You look,” he commanded gruffly.
The cowboy held the mirror in position and peered into it. He jerked it back swiftly.
“God!”
“You see?”
“Them ain’t wolves—they’re people!”
“The padre’s right, Slim.”
“I look at ’em and I see wolves. How come the mirror shows people out there?”
Carver shrugged and his mouth drooped bitterly.
“I don’t know. It’s somethin’ to do with the silver on the glass. The padre can explain it maybe. I can’t.”
He watched the wolf-pack fixedly. He was hesitant, reluctant to give the next order.
“They’re gettin’ set to attack us,” he observed. “They can’t know we got a hundred and fifty men here. They ain’t got a chance. Give ’em the signal, Slim.”
The cowboy’s face was a pale blur in the gloom.
“You—you can’t, boss! It’s murder!”
“It’s them or us. They wouldn’t hesitate to tear your throat out. Come on with the signal.”
Slim hooted twice like an owl. Carver’s rifle cracked immediately and lashed an orange tongue into the gloom. Rifle-fire rippled through the cottonwoods, like a fierce flame devouring a forest of dry twigs.
The great white wolf at the head of the pack leaped convulsively, fell sprawled and kicking. Silver death whined through the night, and lean gray shapes died with the thunder of gunfire in their ears.
The mass of wolves halted fleetingly, spun and fled for the timber. The hateful fire raked them again and again. Dozens fell, twitched and lay still. Half the pack succeeded in melting safely into the shadows. The firing came to a ragged end.
“Some of ’em got away,” Slim said.
Carver got to his feet.
&
nbsp; “They’ll be back.”
The moon shining through a rift in the foliage lighted his face, wanly. His eyes stared darkly and his mouth was twisted in sickish lines.
“Can’t get over the fact they’re human…in a way.”
He parted the brush and stepped into the clear.
“Where yuh goin’, boss?”
The rancher’s white head looked frosty in the moonlight. The gloom made a huge, formless bulk of his body. He went forward across the field, lighting the way with a small pocket torch. Hesitating, Slim crawled out of the brush and followed. Behind them, the cottonwoods murmured with the voices of the ranchers.
Sam Carver knelt at the side of the first form huddled in the long grass. The lamp played across the naked white body of the girl who lay with her golden head cradled upon her arm. Her face was hidden in the pool of shadow cast by her own body. A crimson wetness gleamed on the smooth round of her breast. Carver snapped off the light and stood erect. The moon made molten silver of the dead girl’s body.
“Poor, damn kid!” he said, softly.
The lanky cowboy sighed hoarsely.
“It’s murder! We’ve done murder!”
The old rancher placed a hand on his shoulder.
“’Tain’t murder, son. See—when I put the light on her—” The flash glowed briefly. “She casts a shadow. They was lost souls—an’ lost souls ain’t got no shadows. The padre knows these things. The silver bullets kill them—an’ give them back their souls. I dunno how, but the padre ought to know. He’s a man o’ God.”
“I never believed in souls,” Slim said hollowly.
Sam Carver shook his head slowly. “Never took much truck in ’em myself—’til now. Guess people ain’t as smart as they think they are, Slim. Lots o’ things we don’t know—an’ lots o’ things we do know an’ won’t believe.”
The old man brooded in the moonlight, a somber shadow towering over the dead girl. Then he turned and shuffled with his companion toward the shelter of the cottonwoods.
The 7th Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK®: Manly Banister Page 5
