Hunted

New Mexico, 1863

Manuelito raised his arm, gesturing briefly to his two fellow riders to stop and
dropped nimbly from his horse. Luke watched him casually from his steed,
feigning disinterest in the Indians actions. After briefly sniffing the air and
trailing his fingers through the surrounding low shrubs and grasses the Indian lay
flat against the ground, immobile as a corpse.

Lord save us Luke muttered fingering the cross around his neck nervously as
he awaited the Navajos report. He scratched the stubble on his chin, the result
of nearly a weeks riding in the wilderness, took off his wide brimmed hat and
wiped the sweat from his brow with the grubby sleeve of his shirt. His eyes
scanned the harsh, unforgiving scrubland, the distant mountains and
accompanying caves infested with snakes, of both the human and animal variety
he thought and he allowed the trace of a smile to flash briefly across his lips.

Zeke was in no mood for smiling though Luke observed, as he saw his fellow
rider trot his horse closer to their, still prone, Indian guide. His stiff posture, tight
lips and glaring eyes betrayed his seething anger. The long, hot days trailing
their prey through the desert with little visible success had taken their toll on his
already truculent disposition.

What the hell dyou think youre doin Injun? Zeke snarled, his mouth twisted
into a mocking grin, his eyes remaining blank and cruel as he dismounted and
approached the static figure.

Im talking to you, you son-of-a-bitch. he exclaimed, allowing his anger to rise

further.

Were close now. Manuelito said calmly, raising himself to stand.

Luke winced as, once stood to his full, albeit unimpressive, height, Manuelito was
immediately forced to double up as Zeke drove his balled fist, hard, into the
Indians stomach. Manuelito once again dropped to the ground, this time on all
fours, retching and gasping for air.

Who you tryin to kid Injun? Your people aint no hunters, I bin sayin it all along,
youre sheep-farmers and horse-thieves! The only time you trailed an animals

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when you raid the sheep herd cos you need somewhere warm to put your pecker
on those cold winter nights.

Manuelito, recovering, rose to his feet and, with murder in his eyes, took a step
toward Zeke. Luke sighed and drew his pistol.

Thats enough! he said sharply pulling back the hammer on his sleek revolver
and taking aim directly at the Indians forehead, Now I dont mind this kinda
horseplay between my cowpunchers back on the ranch but Ill be damned if Ill
stand by and let a red-skinned runt like you lay a hand on old Zeke. Now simmer
down, boy, before you do something youll regret.

Manuelito froze, grim-faced, a fraction of a second before Zeke kicked the

Indians legs out from under him. Zeke followed this indignity by discharging a
phlegmy spit-ball on his adversarys filthy deerskin shirt and, somewhat satisfied,
remounted his horse.

Now, lest we forget Luke continued condescendingly, focusing his attention

squarely on Manuelito, Youre only alive at my convenience and weve got
wolves to kill.

***

Luke recalled how this fruitless search had all started when his longhorns had
begun to go missing. At first, they thought it was raiders - Navajo, bandits, or
even rival ranchers. Luke had dispatched his best cattlemen to find the missing
stock, led by his right-hand man, Zeke Peterson. He was a fine boy, just how
Luke liked them, tough and strong, but not too smart able to take orders.

Sure, he was a little rough and ready at times, a little too keen on routing the
natives when they first came here, perhaps. When Zeke and the boys realised
the government wasnt going to mind any if a few less Navajos were left
wandering outside the reservations they got a little lynch happy. They even gave
a name to the Scrub Oak that shaded his porch, The Hanging Tree they called
it. He laughed gently to himself, yep, they sure had high spirits those boys, but
they attended church every Sunday and you never seen men pray so sincerely or
so fervently. The way Luke saw it, all God-fearing men have got to let off some
steam somehow and if a few redskins met their maker, they were just feeding
the fires of old Beelzebub a little early is all.

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Hed been sitting on his porch, sipping some fine whiskey, surveying his land and
thanking God almighty for his good fortune, when he spotted his men riding
toward him in the distance, Zeke led the way. Next to Zeke, Manuelito, walking
unsteadily with arms tied behind his back and, sure enough, a lasso set like a
noose, slack round his neck, the end held tightly in Zekes hand.

Perplexed, he watched their approach, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully, What

you brought me here, boys? Luke asked Another ornament for the hanging
tree?

Zeke spoke Im not sure, boss he paused and Luke noticed something hed not
seen before in those dull eyes, the glimmer of fear, We found those steers, but
you aint gonna believe the mess we found.

Zeke relayed the tale.

Theyd approached the stinking waterhole in the full noon-day sun, it swarmed
with flies. The pool, swarming with flies, ran red with blood. Cow-guts were
scattered across the dry sand, globs of meat hung from the scrub, the cats claw,
the buckthorn. Ravens lazily picked at the carcasses of the three steers,
laggardly drifting skyward as the group approached, gorged on the rich buffet of
flesh.

The dead eyes of the steers stared dumbly into the middle-distance, their glassy
focus reflected the sight of Zeke, dismounting, approaching the closest longhorn
to him and examining its luckless corpse and the ground around it.

Wolves he said You can see the teeth marks he paused, examining the dusty
ground; he nodded to himself, Paw prints.

Nate, another of Lukes steersmen, found the courage to speak in disagreement

You know these cattle as well as I do, Zeke. Ornery as hell, a wolf so much as
comes near these beasts and hell get charged same as anyone. Hes more
likely to get himself killed than get himself a meal.

Well how the hell do you explain it? Zeke raised his voice now, unused to being
challenged No he eyed the distant hills I spect that a wolf pack came down
from those hills, mad with hunger, and took it out on these unfortunates.

Zekes horse nervously loped sideways, startled by a movement in the brush.

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What the hell!? Nate cried in astonishment theres somethin in those bushes
Zeke.

They pulled their pistols and approached the milkweed cautiously all confusion
pushed to the side as reflexes took over.

Well, what have we here? Zeke sounded gleeful.

Manuelito crouched fearfully, wide eyed, shaking and, gripping something tightly
in a balled fist - a tattered, stinking, wolf-skin.

Luke had listened to the tale with increasing incredulity. He recalled how his
anger had risen like a fire in his chest, how hed lain the Indian flat out with one
punch, and thrown the tether attached to his scrawny neck over the largest
branch of his infamous oak.

There aint nobody whose come anywhere near my cattle and lived long enough
to regret it, injun. Tell me what you know or make your peace with whichever
godsll listen. He yanked hard on the rope, pulling the Indian violently into a
painful half fallen, half standing position.

Wait! Manuelito choked, panicked I did not harm your cattle but many more
will be slain unless you listen to me.

It was not so much the Indians words that had cooled Lukes anger. As
Manuelito had met his gaze and spoke, Luke had felt the fires within him subside.
The Indians eyes were compelling, his almost black irises had seemed like the
blackest caves, the deepest wells, the darkest night, enveloping him, inviting him
to rest in their comfortable darkness and set his burdens aside for others to
shoulder. He had paused in his terrible rage and, despite himself, he had
listened.

The wolves, Manuelito claimed, were a notorious pack, known to his tribe for
many years. He alone, had been able to slay one of the beasts, as could be
attested by the skin he wore as a symbol of his skills as a tracker and hunter.
This skin came from the leader of the pack, he claimed without their leader, the
pack was weakened, only four remained. A plan had been formed. In exchange
for his life Manuelito would lead them to the wolves lair. Luke himself would
lead the journey with Zeke at his side. They would find what remained of the
pack and they would kill them.

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 *****

They rode on, following a crooked path through the desert, the unforgiving sun
beating down on their ant-like forms, oppressive and malignant. As the days
wore on, Lukes confidence began to wane; he could feel his mind begin to...slip.
He could describe it no other way. He viewed their journey as if observing it
through a telescope from far away, his feelings muted, disconnected. Time and
distance began to lose their meaning; he could not say whether they had been
riding for days or weeks. They set up camp, they rode, they ate and drank from
their meagre supplies, yet he could not grasp whether they had enough food and
drink for their return trip, nor could he find the motivation to care.

He could see, too, that Zeke felt the same, his brash confidence and ubiquitous
abuse of their guide had fallen away. He rarely spoke, staring into the middle
distance most of the day, barely responding to inquiry or interaction. His eyes
were sunken, his spirit cowed. The only demonstration of emotion was when he
slept. He would cry out unintelligible phrases, sweating and convulsing under his
thin blanket. Whimpering throughout the night he would wake unrested.

Luke began to question his own actions. Why had he agreed to this bizarre
enterprise anyway? It was like a bad dream from which he could not wake. Yet
every time he locked eyes with the Indian, determined to have his say, to fight,
to raise his pistol and demand to be led back to his ranch house, his will drained
from him, he stood helpless, compelled to follow Manuelito to whatever damned
destination they found themselves.

The Indian himself was transformed. Gone was their fearful, diminutive captive
and in his place an abstruse and mystical figure, his wolf-skin clad form leading
their bizarre caravan across the endless plains, chanting softly. He had taken to
enlivening their nights round the fire with macabre tales from his tribe, the
handfuls of herbs which he threw upon the flames causing thick white clouds of
smoke to surge outwards, muddling Lukes thoughts. Luke balked at these tales,
ungodly and unlikely tales of magic, witch-people granted supernatural power
over men through grave-robbing, incest and murder and the most powerful, the
skin-walker, a shape-shifter possessed of an animal spirit.

Luke slept poorly that night, in his dreams he was trapped in the dark, unable to
move, unable to see. A great weight crushed his chest. Sharply, painfully, he
forced himself to breathe in short, tight bursts. Something exhaled, hot on his

5
cheek, wiry fur brushed against the fabric of his trousers, his arm. He felt tiny
jaws pulling at his sleeve, licking his fingers, toying with his delicate extremities.
He moaned weakly in fear, incapacitated and impotent. The jaws nibbled
playfully, bit down hard. He woke screaming into the desolate night.

***

Manuelito turned to face them both, Were here he said simply.

They had arrived at the entrance to a small cave, set in the wall of a steep
canyon. He looked directly upwards, for once, the sun was obscured, the sky
gray with low cloud, the scent of a storm in the air. The close canyon walls rose
forbiddingly to either side of them, the mouth of the cave black and
impenetrable like an empty eye socket.

What now? Luke asked, his voice hoarse.

What else? Manuelitos eyes burned We go inside.

Manuelito led the two men further into the cave; Zeke followed him closely as
Luke trailed behind. Luke could barely see, the torch held by Manuelito providing
little light to illuminate their surroundings. The sense of foreboding was
overpowering and Luke gripped his pistol tighter in his quavering hand.

The nightmarish quality of their journey was so intensified here that he felt
swallowed by the darkness, the tight walls of the cave forming a great gullet
forcing them further into the belly of some great beast. The pretence of some
great glorified hunt was gone and Luke blindly tramped the rocky path, each
footfall a step toward his dark destiny.

He reeled in horror as he realised the two men had moved so far ahead that he
could no longer see the light from the torch. As the darkness enveloped him he
tripped, falling to his knees, a low keening escaping his lips as he scrabbled
desperately forward on hands and knees somehow keeping his wits about him
enough to remain in possession of his gun.

GodGod, help me he whimpered wretchedly.

Do not fear. Your redemption is close at hand. Your judgement has come.

Luke started in surprise at the voice in the darkness, waving his pistol wildly.

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Manuelito? he whispered

The Indian grasped his arm tightly and Luke was pulled roughly to his feet. He
staggered, dragged along by the Indians grip, unable to think or speak, his heart
pounding in his chest, overwhelmed by the thick air, a sense of dreadful
pressure fell upon him, crushing not upon his body but upon his psyche, his core,
his soul.

Soon they emerged into a cavern inside the system of caves, a circular, open
area roughly fifty feet across, lit, impossibly, with a fire in its centre. Luke stared
confusedly around him. Despite the flames, it was still hard to perceive his
surroundings clearly; the flames casting chaotic shadows around him, playing
with his senses, causing illusions, images of diabolical figures to dance upon the
walls.

He slipped, pulling loose from Manuelitos grip, falling to the rocky floor.
Reflexively he reached down to determine the cause of his fall, feeling a slick,
warm substance on the rocks. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger
staring at it almost dreamily, confounded.

Is this blood? he asked Whats happening?

He raised his head and his eyes widened as he saw Zekes body, lying on the
floor, limbs twisted grotesquely, his head lay twenty feet away, free from care
now, his glassy eyes gazing into the void.

Lukes head pounded. He maintained enough of his reason to do one thing, just
one thing he told himself, his features distorting in horror. Forcing his shattered
will to finally take heed, he raised his gun, pointing it at Manuelito, and pulled the
trigger.

Manuelito had his back turned away from Luke. He crouched on the rocky floor
of the cavern, his head cocked to one side. As the bullet connected with his
uncanny, huddled form, he let forth a half-human howl falling forward onto his
hands and knees.

Lukes eyes bulged from his head as Manuelitos body refused to lay still. It
writhed and twisted, his arms elongating, contorting, a sickening, wet snapping
of bone and sinew accompanying the horrific transformation. Manuelitos back
arched horribly; his buckskin trousers tore as his legs became haunches, thick

7
hair sprouted impossibly from his flesh. As Manuelito turned deliberately to face
him, Luke felt the heat of urine running down his legs as his bladder gave way.
He whimpered. Unrecognisable now, the Indian towered above Luke, the wolf-
skin which he had once worn had now become his skin, merging with his human
form, the animal revealed, his face the countenance of a slavering, snarling wolf,
feral and hungry. Appallingly, the eyes remained human, the irises dark black
pools.

What was once Manuelito stood on its haunches, swiping the useless pistol from
Lukes hand. It opened its mouth and spoke. Has it become clear? I am the
leader of the pack which we hunted. he said A pack of witch-people, my family,
the skin-walkers.

Somehow, the fact that its voice remained clearly human was enough to tip
Lukes already teetering psyche over the edge into insanity. The wolf-man
dragged Lukes gibbering form behind him, violently throwing him down by the
central fire.

Shadowy figures rose. They had been lying around the fire, curled around one
another, until now hidden in the dancing shadows; a woman with three children
clinging to her side, two boys and a girl, beautiful and naked but for four wolf-
skins, the childrens those of only cubs.

It has become difficult to find prey since you drove the Navajo from your land
with your cruelties. The wolf-man crouched above Luke, his hot breath
bellowing into his face.

We have made do with of your cattle since our usual prey are trapped in your
reservations. he spat the final word But the flavour soon bored us.

No. We desire sweeter flesh. It was not hard to bend your minds; after
all...they are so small. He reached out a terrible claw and pulled the cross from
Lukes neck, snapping the chain. What is it you church-faring folk are always
saying? he snarled mockingly God helps those who help themselves?

Well, children... he gestured toward his progeny who began to snarl, their
features shifting, melding with their dreadful skins, their arms and legs knotting
and warping.

...help yourselves!

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The wolf-childrens eyes gleamed in the firelight, Manuelitos powerful body
pinned him helplessly to the ground, his great weight crushing Lukes chest.
Sharply, painfully, he forced himself to breathe in short, tight bursts. Something
exhaled, hot on his cheek, wiry fur brushed against the fabric of his trousers, his
arm. He felt tiny jaws pulling at his sleeve, licking his fingers, toying with his
delicate extremities. He moaned weakly in fear, incapacitated and impotent.
The jaws nibbled playfully, bit down hard. Luke screamed.

And then silence.

***