Vendetta on the Plains
Butchers-the-Wyrm took another quick slug of whiskey to fortify himself. Most men lost their control, their edge, from drink. But not the Butcher; he was no ordinary man, and this was no ordinary whiskey. Distilled with peat fires from sanctified stills hidden in the cool green, mist-shrouded highlands, this bottle traveled thousands of miles across sea and land, to cross his lips in this parched, dusty land starved for a bit o' green. Yet it was here the Butcher came to seek his fortune, to do his duty. For he was pack leader of the fiercest bunch of Fianna west of the Mississippi. They hunted along the pioneer trails, stalking through settler camps at night, circling the miner tents and fledgling towns, bringing down all who bore taint of the Wyrm. And there were many, so many! Some were touched but lightly by the blight of corruption, who in trying to escape the stifling, soul-crushing cities of the east now brought the soul sickness into cleaner lands. Others embraced the evil and spread it freely as pox in a whorehouse. But wherever the Butcher's pack went, the evil died, died beneath claw and bullet, cleansed in fire. Their efforts had gained them considerable renown on both sides of the Veil. Humans called his pack an outlaw gang and quailed at the sound of its name. Yet they were always welcome in a Fianna camp, or even the occasional Silver Fang or Get of Fenris sept. Only the native Changers remained aloof, giving no praise for their deeds or food for their bellies. These damned desert wolves didn't know the first thing about hospitality! They weren't to be trusted, and he'd already shown a few of them the price for treachery. Still, the life of a werewolf was good: songs of praise for a job well done, gold taken from the undeserving, and the visceral pleasure of ripping the flesh of the wicked.
He tipped the bottle in the air, and tried to think of when it all went sour. About the last good run they had was when they caught those land speculators in the open a month or two ago. They had wandered too far from town, too caught up in schemes and greed to realize the trouble they were in. They reeked of the Wyrm; its corruption had long ago hollowed their souls like choya wood, and their eyes only shone in the light of gold. But their flesh tore as easy as any man's, and sizzled to char before the stench of evil faded. Yeah, that was one of the good days. But the easterners had some powerful friends. One friend had a lawman in his pocket, and soon word got around that a posse was trailing the Butcher's Pack. Losing them would be no problem – even the sharpest Injun scout can't follow you through the World Walls – but men like that don't ever quit, and can make nuisances of themselves after a while. Besides, if the henchmen die on a regular basis, sooner or later folks will stop volunteering for the job. So, one of Butch's Kinfolk, pretending to be a vengeful victim of the gang's looting spree, offered to lead the lawmen to the outlaws' hideout. Worked like a charm, too. They hadn't quite realized they were in a box canyon when the pack took their war forms and fell upon the doomed humans. The lead lawman screamed like a woman at the sight of the pack leader, standing tall as a grizzly; he stopped screaming when the Butcher ripped his chest open. The others fell too, some shooting each other as the wolf madness fell over them. It was too easy, no glory, only practicality. Without a word the pack loped out of the box canyon, leaving the bodies for the buzzards.
Butchers-the-Wyrm cocked his head, listening. Nothing but the wind in the night, carrying neither scent nor the slightest promise of rain. He lifted the nearly-drained bottle and saluted the empty room. "Me old friends, it's missing you I am," he muttered in his father's birth tongue, one of the few things he had carried with him when he left Ireland in the throes of the Famine. Butch easily imagined how his da must have felt, alone, his world in shambles with the deaths of all he loved. He felt that way now.
The moon had waxed and waned, the speculators and the lawmen already forgotten, before the trouble started. Someone, somehow, tied the pack to the dead men in the canyon. His Kinsman was arrested for his "treachery," and when the Theurge went to break him out, he was ambushed – gunned down before he could change to his unstoppable war form. Loyal Collins was hung the next afternoon, and there wasn't a damn thing Butch or the others could do. Who caught the poor lad, and who shot down Moordreamer? Not the sheriff, certainly, nor his deputies. Word was, some stranger –an outlaw by one account – brought in the Kinfolk and did the deed on the Fiann before riding away. The Butcher's Pack mourned their loss, made more bitter by the fact they couldn't track down the killer to get their proper vengeance. Slays-the-Dead disappeared a few days later, and it wasn't until the following week Butch learned the valiant hunter's body was brought in to town. The killer didn't take the bounty promised for the capture of gang members – the man just rode away before the sun was full up.
The three remaining pack members were shaken, and no mistake. Something was after them, yet the air held no trace of Wyrmscent. Butch decided to head for familiar territory, a friendly sept two weeks' journey away. They might have had a chance, if Brushtail hadn't scented taint in a settlement along the way. By the time the fomor were dusted, their mysterious hunter'd caught up to the pack. Brushtail lay where she fell, dropped in mid-charge. There was no sign she had transformed, which made no sense. The stranger must have surprised the young scout. Calls-the-Dawn went mad with grief and rage; he slew half a dozen in a wagon-train before the stranger got him, somehow. Alone, Butch went to ground in a derelict cabin. Now he waited.
And the waiting was over. The door flew open, guttering the dying lamplight. "So you've come, ye devil bastard," the Fianna growled as he rose.
"I've come for you, Butch. I'll bring you in like I brought in the rest of your gang."
"After you killed them, you mean." He felt the effects of the sweet liquor blaze away like mist in the morning sun, burned by the fires of Rage.
"They could have come peacefully, but they chose to fight. I don't suppose you'll be any different."
Butch's muscles knotted; he gathered himself for the Change. "And just who the hell are you!? Some outlaw with a fast gun? How did you bring down the best warriors in this country? Who the Hell–" and he loosed his tenuous hold on his temper, willing the Change – and nothing happened. The fires that changed man into beast dimmed like a bonfire in a gullywasher. In a moment he realized why. Almost beyond sound, he heard a chanting, and spied a medallion around the stranger's neck glowing with more than the feeble lantern's light. So that's how he took down the pack! Foul Injun magics, from those damned Uktena or worse. . . using honorless trickery to murder his companions, his family! "Take off your damn mask! Show me your face! I'll know your name before I tear out your heart!" Butch roared.
The masked man stood, unmoving in the doorway, his pistol betraying the slightest tremor as it pointed at Butch's chest, but behind his mask his eyes burned as brightly as the werewolf's. "My name is John. John Reid. I was a Texas Ranger. You killed my brother, Jim, and four good men. But you didn't kill me." So that was it. They were careless, and one of the posse lived to carry a blood feud against his pack. The waste, the loss, smoldered even deeper into his heart. Against the force of that hate and mindless anger, even the power of spirit magic faltered, The world went red and Butchers-the-Wyrm coiled to spring, already growing, Changing –
The pistol barked once, twice. The two slugs ripped into Butch's chest, searing away his rage in a wave of unbearable agony. He shrieked as the silver bullets ripped open his heart; his spirit fled before the body hit the earthen floor.
". . . and I suspect it was a trick of the light, but he seemed a lot bigger in person. If I didn't hate him so much, I reckon I would have been afraid."
The masked man rode toward the setting sun, marveling how the light made his stallion's white main seem to smolder like coals. Beside him on a sure-footed paint rode his faithful Indian companion, his savior and loyal guide. The red man grunted in his usual way, noncommittal yet implying a deeper meaning. After a few minutes, they drew rein and watched the sun sink below the hills.
"So, the killers all gone. Now what you do?" the Indian asked in his clear yet imperfect English. "Now that gang rounded up, you take mask off?"
The former lawman considered his answer for a long minute. "John Reid died that day in the canyon. He lies in the sixth grave you dug. This mask gave me the power to take down the Cavendish gang. Do I take it off and become John Reid again? Can I ever go back to the life I had before?" As the sun touched the horizon, he straightened and turned to the friend, firmly resolved. "No. John Reid is dead. I'm going to continue wearing this mask as long as there are outlaws in the west. I want to make this a safer place to live. Come on, Tonto, we've got lots of trails to ride!"
Tonto finished banking the fire and then sat in to the sounds in the darkness: insects, a distant coyote, the occasional shuffle of the horses, and the light breathing of his sleeping companion. Above, the uncountable stars wheeled silently through the cloudless sky. When he was sure the white man was sound asleep. Then he silently crept to a rocky outcropping several bowshots away. After a few moments in the darkness, the lump he took for a boulder shifted and spoke in a sonorous tone. "So, the white man did his work?"
"He did this, Grandfather, he brought down each of the Wyrmcomers that killed your brother and his pack."
"Yes, I heard Brings-the-Rain howl in triumph as he passed on to his ancestors. Even in death his power was great; the enemies could not change, so the white man did not fear them." The hunched figure of the elder shifted, and he peered at the Kinfolk. So now, Tonto, what shall we do with this man? He has done us a great service, but he is not one of us. He is Wyrmbringer, and must never know of us." The Uktena elder let the silence settle between them, and waited as the Kinfolk chose his words.
"Grandfather, I knew this man when he was a boy. I was with him as you healed his body, and have ridden with him and guided him for three turns of the moon. He is strong of heart. He would kill an Uktena warrior who offered battle, but would show mercy to any who came open-handed to him. Cavendish and his pack are dead because he felt the fires in their hearts; a lesser threat he would spare. Lies find no place on his tongue. He wishes to fight those who wrong others; I can guide him to help our people."
"You will do this?" asked the elder gravely. "Stay with this white man, share danger with him? Most Wyrmbringers will spit on you, or beat you for being born of the Pure Lands. I would not ask one of the People to endure this."
"I will walk this path, because it is best for our people. In so many Wyrmbringers there is darkness; I will fan the flame in this one, to bring light to our people before it is too late."
"It may already be too late," the old one said, "but follow your path, find honor in it, and the People will sing your name." He settled back down and seemed to fade from view. "We will speak again."
"Thank you, Grandfather." And Tonto turned and slipped back to camp, where his faithful friend – his ke mo sa bey – lay beneath a million stars, sleeping the sleep of the just.