CHAPTER 72

W.H. shrugs.

Lifting the letter of intent with two pinched fingers Dr. Bennett says, "These men have issued a letter of intent. They have substantial capital from their profits with the Hudson's Bay Company. They wish to send their bourgeoning prosperity into a new life. A place where the lure of even greater fortunes draws every man who can swing a pick. Carve out a farm. And build a life. Every woman can vie for a husband, some land, and a home. They're calling it the American dream. Look here."

He points to the article. W.H. lifts it up and scans it.

"I know I may have fallen on desperate times, but everyone starts hard. Why, even Moses had it rough. Besides, none of this makes sense to me. Hudson's Bay Company. American dream. It's not my dream. I hunt wolves. That's it. That's all I'm truly good at."

Dr. Bennett sighs and pushes the second article into W.H.'s view. "The retirees have organized into a board of directors and established a scholarship. This article, published by Scientific American, is the hunt of all hunts."

W.H. reads a headline that immediately catches his eye. NEW MEXICO'S WEREWOLF.

He reads of on.

"Mrs. Lorraine Kelsey, of Cimarron, New Mexico, had her cage literally rattled when she checked on her hens in the middle of the night and found a full-grown werewolf in her chicken coop. Worried for the safety of her children and her fowl, she defended herself. In less than a second she fired two shots from her double-barreled shotgun, which lay her unconscious. The first shot knocked me plum out. When asked why she thought the werewolf chose not to harm her or her young 'uns, she replied, "Well, while I was flying through the air, I said a quick prayer to Jesus. Then I hit the ground. Next thing I knew, I woke up to a pail of water in my face and my young 'uns circled around me bawlin' their eyes out. All I can say is God hears prayers!" Mrs. Kelsey did not find a body, which according to locals and legend is due to lead projectiles instead of pure silver. The whereabouts of her protector and husband were earnestly established on his having honest business with the inquisition of a railroad expansion through New Mexico. "Folks will be glad to know that prices are going down on all goods. Forts will give way to Main Street. Ferry and stagecoach will be relics to our children's children." As most maids of the new lands will note, Colt Firearms is the leading craftsman of fine firearms. Repels Injuns, renegade Mexicans, mistrustful whites, runaway slaves, thieves, murderers, and now werewolves. Colt has recently announced an upcoming pure silver projectile…"

"This here is horse dung! That ain't an article. It's an advertisement designed to push sales," W.H. shouts, pushing the article back to his uncle.

"Aren't…or are not any such thing as werewolves. Scientists are men and men are flawed. Yes, they once thought the earth was flat, but we now know it to be round. Hey, do you know the difference between science and religion?"

W.H. shakes his head no.

"In science, you can be right until proven wrong. Then you can just prove yourself right again. It's fluid, see."

"And religion?"

"You can never be proven wrong!" Dr. Bennett finds this punch line so hysterical he laughs until his face turns as red as a tomato. When the headmaster calms down, he polishes his silverware with his napkin, then neatly tucks it into his shirt, properly preparing for his meal. It isn't long before the steaming stew arrives.

As soon as the slop hits his bowl, W.H. wastes no time in attacking his food.

"I don't believe in folklore or superstition," W.H. says, stuffing biscuits in his mouth as though they might grow legs, leap off the plate, and run away.

"Belief has little to do with science. Our science division is fascinated with new specimens. As you are a specimen gatherer, I have recommended your name to the board of directors for the scholarship. Combine that with the board's letter of intent and you have a substantial fortune waiting to be gathered."

W.H. swallows and says, "A wolf at my feet is worth a pack in the woods." He resumes his attack.

"Nephew, you are positively ignorant and stubborn."

"Let me see if I can get this straight: You want me to travel to Nebraska, which is no doubt packed with Indians. See if I can't find some sort of land speculation that benefits the retirees. Then travel to New Mexico to kill a werewolf, that doesn't exist in the hopes that the school may collect a specimen?"

"How's your stew?" his uncle asks him.

W.H. stops chewing, wondering if the old man's age hasn't gotten to him.

"Isn't it nice to have a warm meal and a full belly? There's a lot of warm meals that reward money can provide you. If you are the hunter you proclaim yourself to be, then prove it!"

The wolf hunter gulps down his half-chewed food and finally comes to understand the professor.

"How much?"

"One thousand dollars."

W.H. pauses for a moment, then explodes with excitement.

"Whoo-weee! That's more bounty than most outlaws is worth."

"Are worth, nephew. Had you taken the time to read the article, you might have noticed that lots with homes are selling for twelve hundred dollars. If you appease the board, they may pay you for your efforts and you could find yourself a home right on the river for ten thousand dollars."

"What's the split?"

"Split?"

"I ain't…" He corrects himself. "I am not going fifty-fifty if I am going to do all the lifting."

"You misunderstand me. I'm in no need of money. I have a comfortable home and a rewarding career. The reward is all yours, provided you can capture, kill, and deliver the specimen or appease the board by gathering information on land grants and perhaps securing a few land deeds here and there."

"Oh, I can guarantee you that wolf is as good as dead!"

"These are my terms: Trap the 'werewolf' and the reward plus the bounty is yours. However, if you should come up empty-handed, then you must return to school for the fall semester with detailed maps, newspaper articles, and reputable contacts for the board of directors to pursue a new hedge fund. You must keep a journal and give up hunting as an occupation and commit to finishing your studies and maybe even consider taking my post when I retire."

W.H. chews his food and thinks for a moment. "Do I have to pay the scholarship back if I come up empty-handed?"

"Not if you keep a journal, take daguerreotypes, and teach one semester the following year."

"Dagoro-who?"

"It's a device they're using to take these new things called pictures. You've seen them, I'm sure."

W.H. finishes eating and packs his leftovers in a red bandana for Bingo. He clears his throat, "Well, seein' as how business is slow, I'm going to take you up on your offer. Does it matter that I don't know how to use your…what did you call it?"

"Daguerreotype. No it doesn't matter if you know how to use one. If you would like, you can stay another semester and take a class on it. Professor Higgs has room—"

W.H. holds up his hand and cuts his uncle off. "Not interested. I'll figure it out. Can't be as hard as hunting wolves. Am I expected to supply the recording materials? Quill pen? Paper? Sketch pencils? Daguerreotype?"

"No, no. The picture contraption, journal, and money are all included. Though the devices are going to require quite a bit in the way of accessories."

W.H. reluctantly agrees. "I'm a single man on a horse. I'll make room." He looks at the headmaster for a moment like he's waiting to see if this is all a joke. When he realizes that it is not, he extends his hand. His uncle takes it, and hugs his uncle.

"Thank you for this and the meal, Uncle. I love you, and I swear I won't let you down, sir."

"That's a good lad. Personally, I fancy this tall tale is nothing more than American folklore, but if dispelling some desert plains rumors gets you back in school, then so be it. And if, on the other hand, there is werewolf, our walls will be packed with spectators and students. I'm sure a fortune can be made there."

"Whether legend or lore, if it's a wolf, I'll find it and kill it!"

Charlie empties rocks out of his boots.

"One thousand dollars sure is a lot of money," Luther says, thinking of the ways he would spend it.

"You'd think it was, wouldn't cha?"

"Yup!" Luther smiles greedily and nods.

"About this time, Kiowa began to understand Onendah's words, back when Onendah said he would still have troubles. Being hunted was just the beginning of his troubles. As it turns out, Raging Bull was telling the truth as well. The buffalo were being hunted to extinction."

"What's extinction?" Kevin asks.

"It means no more buffalo," Charlie answers.

"Why did the Indians hunt the buffalo to ex-tink-erton?" Zack asks, failing to pronounce the word properly.

"It wasn't just the Indians who were hunting the buffalo. It was the US Army and pale-face buffalo hunters."

"Aren't we all pale-faces?" Kevin asks.

Everyone looks at him, unsure of what to say, since his Korean features obviously set him apart. Charlie simply nods and continues with the story.

"So wait. There's Kiowa, Hopi, Navajo, Cherokee…and pale-face Indians?" John asks.

"No…no…Wait. I see why you're confused. Pale-face isn't an Indian tribe. It's an Indian term used to describe the white man." Charlie laughs. He wraps his hands around his belly and says, "We are all pale-faces to them."

Kevin nods.

"Why'd the pale-face want to kill the buffalo?"

"Oh, a lot of reasons. Probably the most important was for cattle grazing and railroads."

"No way, eh?" Kevin says in complete disbelief.

"What about the white buffalo? Was he putting all the buffalo in a cave where no one could find them?" Luther asks.

"No, stupid! Don't you understand? There is no cave. That's just hogwash the buffalo believe! It isn't true! Right?" John asks Charlie.

Charlie ignores them and continues. "I know most of yous have heard of the sun dance, but how many of you have heard of the moon dance?"

No one raises his hand.

"That's because it's a new dance and only the skinwalkers performed it."