A/N: Literally the only thing I kept thinking while I was watching the beginning cutscene of this game was that I needed a werewolf AU. This chapter is short though, sorry.
It was a quiet night for John Marston and his restless nag who had only hours ago been free roaming the great plains of New Austin before having the unpleasant experience of a greedy cowboy jumping her back. She fussed all throughout the early hours of the evening, spirit not yet broken despite the bit stuck between her aching jaw. The prairie stood unnaturally still, only a couple of crickets felt the need to break the unbearable silence with their soft chirping. The tall grass blades brush up against their neighbor with a delicate slow motion, bowing to the newly chilling summer breeze.
John had made camp early this night, tacking his nag's reigns to a measly stake planted the opposite side of his sleeping mat anticipating the horse would stomp him to death in his sleep if given the chance. He sneaks a furtive glance at the animal from under the brim of his ragged cowboy hat to spy the horse fidgeting at the dust beneath her hooves. She stood strong as a brown beauty like the many women he had past on a ride through town down on his visit to Mexico. Her dark mane caught the wind like the dancing girls in floral skirts, wild flowers knotted into their hair, personality as sharp as a desert cactus. The horse's eyes burned with a fiery passion akin to a rattlesnake's sparkling fangs and her walk reminded him of the confidence he had seen in the government agents that marched strait up his porch that one dewy spring morning to propose that insulting offer he inevitably took with anxiety riding on his shoulders. She would be a good horse one day, powerful and brave just like John intended to train her up to be.
When they went into town together, he'd spoil her with a fashionable leather saddle instead of the makeshift wool blanket that covered her back presently. He could imagine it clearly, running his calloused fingers over the floral pattern in the leather fenders before brushing an oily shine into her matt coat. He'd be the envy of all cowboys, his horse a brilliant star in the corral settled among the sickly riffraff. If he was going to catch up with Dutch and the rest, he reckons that he'll need the proper supplies. He owed his family that much.
By the time the fire had died down to a glittering charcoal, John, feeling weary from the day's work in the hot sun, had laid down for a rest. The light dances on his face less frequently now, scars creating crevassed and shadows like an embossed world map abused and over folded in the pocket of a well traveled explorer. John's squeezes his eyes shut, sour expression molded into his tired face and aching body.
Coyotes whine in the valley over yonder like boisterous drunk men hollering at loose women gliding on the porch of the brothel, teasing, flirty with enticing ruffled skirts and the cozy scent of cheap perfume. He'd never tell but on lonely nights, all the tobacco smoke and evening chatter made him comfortable, reminded him of the night he first met his wife Abigail. She'd be disappointed to hear he ever returned to such a place so he keeps it between himself and his pretty new nag.
Out over the prairie, the pack of coyotes yelp, bark with offensive enthusiasm before the grass turns abruptly silent. Even his horse seems roused with suspicion at the strange turn of events. An eerie silence falls over the tall grass so usual teeming with nocturnal wild life and John becomes curious. All creatures had fled swiftly and the ones that had been forced to stay, not an insect nor animal dared to make a sound.
Suddenly, his horse jumps up, voicing its disapproval of the rustling grass. She tugs on her leather binds, nearly pulling the stake from the packed dirt, lifting herself onto her hind legs. The horse whines loudly, anxiety apparent in her frantic body language, attempting to pull away from the campsite.
John's eyes fly open and he rises from the bedroll slowly, head peaking out over the tall grass like a buck scanning the immediate surrounding area for a hunter and listens. A terrible musky scent assaults his nose, a rotten stench that reminded John of a horrible mixture between an overflowing outhouse and the sweaty odor of the Heaviest Man attraction at the Benzini Bros. Traveling Circus. It was a smell so volatile that it threatens to singe John's fine nose hair that was in for a grooming once John made it into town.
He wipes away a couple of unwanted tears that leak from the corners of his burning eyes, blurring the remaining light of the campfire. Blunt teeth bite into his tongue to focus himself on the approaching threat a couple feet away from his resting spot.
Besides his horse making the awful ruckus, he expertly detects a rustling growing louder and louder. His fingers reach out for his repeater at his bedside without taking his sight from the direction of the crunching earth among the grass.
Suddenly his horse lifts the stake from the ground in her panic and without another protest, takes off in the opposite direction. John's first reaction to reach out for her, to call her name but then he stops in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. In the dim moonlight, shadowed by the clouds of the night sky, he catches sight of the animal.
A large black beast with an arched back and hairy complexion, stood perched a mere 10 paces at the feet of John. The creature exhibited attributes far too big to be a wolf but not the right shape for a grizzly as it nestled itself expertly in the brush. A piercing predatory gaze paralyzed John's body for a moment when they lock eyes, the bright yellow twinkling menacingly in the darkness. A deep rumbling growl buzzes from the creature's lips like thunder rolling off thick grey clouds of a stormy sky. Heartbeat pounding like Native American drums in John ears, he wonders if the dark creature could smell the fear weighing on his furiously working chest. His mouth tastes dry, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as his finger presses close to the trigger of his Winchester repeater.
The gun misfires, a bright flash of gunpowder shooting up instead of in the beast's direction and the angry animal roars a twisted version of a war hero's battle cry before lunging at the retreating man. John stands his ground, taking a short moment to aim at the speeding creature racing to him. But before he has the chance to fire again, the animal topples him with a powerful strength John had never felt before. Panic surging through his trembling limbs, he attempts to keep the creature at bay with the width of his repeater. The beast tears through the wood of his gun like a pulsating circular saw, twisting the iron like metal taffy with ease. Keeping the animal at bay only prevented fatal injuries to his head, unable to stop thick, talon like claws slashing into the better part of his cheek and the pointed bridge of his nose.
A flurry of cuss words fly from John's gritted teeth like lightning, reaching down with one arm for the safety of his revolver. Sharp bladelike teeth dig into the flesh of his forearm and John yells out in pain, trying to kick the animal off with the pointy spurs of his boots. A burning shoots through him like the remaining coals of the fire coursing through his veins as the creature's barks bubble and gurgle over John's fresh blood.
Curse words continue to fly from John's panicked lips as he barely manages to stuff the head of his revolver into the creatures belly before firing off several shots.
It's the beast's turn to wail and howl in pain before stumbling back into the brush as John tries to compose himself. He snarls with as much vigor as the animal and pulls back the lever, blasting a couple shots off into the darkness.
The creature moans, loud and broken like the whistle of the cargo train before making one final dash back into the grass. It doesn't get far, only gaining a few feet of distance between itself and John before falling over into the dust.
John pauses before unloading the rest of his revolver into the beast, lying in a pooling circle of its own blood. When the gun comes up empty, John continues to click the trigger a few times before he tossing the weapon aside. Panting from the wild ordeal, he retrieves his rifle by the campsite before confronting the dark lump resting dead in a scarce patch on the prairie.
When he goes to the animal to identify the creature, his hands shake clutched around his rifle. A slow, uneasy breath breaks over his trembling lips.
At his feet was not the dark wild beast he witnessed tear into his forearm but an unfamiliar dead man.
Long thick black wiry hair fanned out over most of his demented face, caked in mud and fresh blood. What remained of his skin in the torchlight glistened as red as the earth the man came from. Bare-naked, the only identifying feature of who this man may have been was a collection of charms hung around his neck. John thinks he recognizes them as Native American in origin.
He rubs his bleary eyes as if he's too astonished to believe his weary sight.
He has killed many men in the past, this he knew all too well, but this one felt different somehow. John was certain he had murdered the beast but evidence to the contrary lay at his feet. The confusion swirls his already spinning head and aching limbs, breath still uneven. In his exhaustion, he threatens to fall over right there but forces himself to straighten up.
"Shit fire." He swears on a harsh whisper through a southern drawl. His head whips around, looking for any witnesses.
Unclear of the events that had just transpired that evening, he cradles his wounded arm and slings his rifle over his good shoulder, going off wayward in search of his startled nag.