To Catch a Wolf

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To Catch a Wolf

19th Century Werewolf Series – Book 4

By Susan Krinard

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Canon City, Colorado, 1875

Free.

Morgan paused just outside the gates of the Territorial Penitentiary, staring through the

bars at the cold, hard faces of the men who had kept him caged for the last five years.

He knew that their blank expressions hid relief—relief that the one prisoner they couldn't

break was leaving their jurisdiction.

They'd stopped trying to beat him after the first year, because he gave them no reason

other than their dislike of his silence. They left him almost entirely alone after the

second year, and so did the other convicts. Even though he never attempted escape,

they kept him in his cell all but an hour each day, and let him out only under heavy

guard with half a dozen rifles trained at his head.

He'd learned how to keep his sanity when the scents of wood and river came to him

through the barred window. He'd learned to exist in a place where everything he had

been died a slow and lingering death.

It was easier than the one his father had suffered.

With no possessions but memory and the clothes upon his back, he turned away from

the high stone walls. The road led east, to the town of Canon City with its houses and

shops and saloons. To the west rose the peaks of the Sangre de Cristos, and to the

north Pike's Peak and Colorado Springs. The border with New Mexico Territory lay a

hundred miles to the south, as the crow flies.

The road that had led him to Colorado in search of his father had begun in the west, in

California. But his mother and sister were no longer waiting in the little mountain cabin.

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Four years after his trial and incarceration in various jails and then here at the Territorial

Penitentiary, he had received the one letter of his nine-year term.

His uncle Jonas had been brief. Edith Holt was dead, and his sister Cassidy had gone

with Jonas to his ranch in New Mexico. There she would have a decent upbringing

away from the unsavory influence of her kin.

Cassidy had been six when Morgan left. She would be a woman now, familiar with

courting and kissing and all the things Morgan had missed. She might even have

started a family of her own. She'd have no place in her life for an ex-convict.

Better that Cassidy should forget he ever existed. He had no family. He was alone. And

he would remain alone.

There were many ways to be alone in Colorado. Not every valley was a booming mining

town, nor was every hill swarming with eager prospectors. There were places where

wolves still avoided the hunters' guns and traps.

That was where Morgan would go. North, and west, into the high mountains, the deep

valleys. There he would forget he had ever been a man.

His feet, so used to measuring the dimensions of his cell, were slow to remember what

it was to stride. Autumn dust rose in little puffs about his dilapidated shoes. He stepped

out of the shapeless leather and kicked the shoes away.

He walked a hundred paces down the road and turned north where only animal trails

marked the path. No one called after him, neither a curse nor a farewell. He dismissed

the humans from his mind.

Time as men measured it had long since lost its meaning. He walked for many days,

drinking from trickling streams and springs and rivers, eating what he sensed was fit

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and safe. Where men made their stink of waste and metal, he passed by unseen. The

season they called Indian summer lingered well into the mountains. Golden leaves

rustled under his feet. Then snow fell, and he shook off the cold as he had done in the

years of captivity.

At last there came a day when he heard the wolves howl.

The scent of men did not reach here. The air stung his nostrils with the promise of

winter, and turned to fog with each breath.

He looked up at the unbarred sky and howled. The wolves answered. They came, silent

to any who walked on two legs. When they ringed him in, hackles raised and teeth

bared, he stripped off the remains of his ragged clothing and walked among them

without fear. As they shrank back, he Changed.

The wolves recognized him, though they had surely never seen his like before. They

crouched low in obeisance. The mated pair who led the pack whined anxiously, and he

told them in a language they understood that he would not usurp their sovereignty as

long as he shared the fate of the pack.

So they welcomed him. He made himself known to each wolf in turn, his black-furred

shoulders rising above those of the others, twice the height of the smallest beast. Then

he sent them away, and became a man for the last time.

He gathered his discarded clothing and laid them in a neat pile upon the virgin ground.

With his hands he dug a deep hole, placed the shirt and trousers inside, and smoothed

the dirt over the remnants of his humanity.

A snowflake kissed Morgan's shoulder. Another joined it, and its kinfolk danced and

spun out of the sky to offer a final benediction. He ran his fingers over his face, feeling

the gauntness and the sharp planes, the scar where a fellow inmate had stabbed him

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through the cheek and left only the slightest mark. There would be no such mark on the

wolf. And the weight in his chest, so long ignored, would shrivel and be forgotten.

With a shrug of his shoulders, he Changed. Snowflakes caught in his fur. The richness

of the forest poured over him and embraced him.

Howls rose from the nearest slope. He answered and broke into a lope, covering the

broken ground effortlessly. The years sloughed away one by one, like human skin and

bone, until his heart lay naked to the world. It froze into a lump of ice, untouched and

untouchable.

Now he was truly free.

Denver, Colorado, June 1880

One by one the members of the Ladies' Aid Society rose from their chairs and sofas in

the Munroes' grand parlor and took leave of their hostess. Narrow silk and brocade

skirts rustled, confining legs that seldom found practical use save to convey their

owners from mansion to carriage and from carriage to shop.

Athena Sophia Munroe did not rise to see her guests to the door. She extended her

gloved hand and accepted the offered farewells like a queen upon a throne. A queen as

luxuriously confined as the most favored consort in a pasha's harem.

She smiled and found a compliment for each lady in turn, listening to their chatter as

Brinkley led them into the hall.

Cecily Hockensmith lingered, waving her fan indolently against the hot, dry air.

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"What is to be done about this awful heat?" she exclaimed. "Everyone advised us to go

to the mountains for the summer, but Papa did not wish to miss any business

opportunities." She made a moue of distaste. "Business, always business. Is it not

frightfully dull?”

"The men do not seem to find it so," Athena said. She thought of Niall, hard at work in

some stifling office while she sat at her ease at home. "It is true that many families do

leave the city in the summer. That is why our attendance today was less than it would

be at other times. In the autumn, we will have our full complement again.”

Miss Hockensmith closed her eyes and sighed. "We always went to Newport during the

summers in New York. Ah, those fresh ocean breezes. How pleasant it was.”

Athena nodded with polite sympathy. "It must seem very different in Denver, with the

ocean so far away.”

"Have you ever visited the sea, my dear?”

"I am afraid not. I was to attend school in the east, but—”

"You must go one day, Miss Munroe. You cannot miss it.”

Athena imagined herself by the waves, breathing in the salt air and letting the water

bathe her feet. The picture was so enticing that it hurt.

"I would like to take the orphans to the ocean," she said quickly. "They would appreciate

it more than anyone.”

"Ah, yes, the dear orphans." Miss Hockensmith grew serious, meeting Athena's gaze

with an air of troubled concern. "I hope you won't mind a bit of sisterly advice. I have

been observing you ever since our arrival, Miss Munroe. I confess that I have never

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seen anyone work as tirelessly as you on behalf of the masses. Why, even our greatest

philanthropists in New York did not become so

personally involved in such work.”

Athena straightened in her chair. "You compliment me too highly, Miss Hockensmith. I

do little enough, and I have the assistance of many others. It seems to me that it is our

duty, as the more fortunate, to do what we can to aid the less.”

Miss Hockensmith raised a plucked brow. "Naturally. But the orphanage, the fallen

women, the unemployed men in Globeville and Swansea—are you quite sure that you

have not taken on too much, my dear?" Her dark eyes sparkled with compassion. "I fear

that you will exhaust yourself with the Winter Ball, among so many other ventures. You

know that I would be more than happy to assist you. I had much experience with

organizing affairs of this sort in New York. And I do so wish to help the dear little

orphans.”

Athena looked up at Cecily, at her height and presence and midnight-black hair above a

pale, lovely face. The lady was used to being ruler in her own kingdom, and who could

blame her? She had sacrificed a great deal to come to Denver with her father.

"Of course," Athena said. "Your advice and experience will be most welcome. I shall

need everyone's help to make the second Winter Ball a success equal to last year's.”

"It is a shame that we had not yet come to town then," Cecily said, "but I am sure you

made an excellent job of it. Certainly your ballroom is one of the finest I have seen in

Denver

for a modest gathering. How you must enjoy dancing in it.”

Athena made a slight adjustment to her perfectly arranged skirts as if some part of her

might have been exposed by an inadvertent motion. She was grateful for Cecily's

oblivious comment; far better these occasional pricks than the slash of pity.

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Denver society no longer had reason to pity her. Had she not proven herself capable of

contributing as much as anyone in her work for those less fortunate? Was her formal

parlor not one of the most stylish and tasteful in Denver? Did not the wives and