Page:Weird tales v36n07 1942-09.djvu/23

Rh "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-wolflike one o' theseraidin' 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.

HERE 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-