Walking Wolf (7 page)

As I sat on the plank bed, studying the heavy manacles that hung from my wrists and ankles, I realized my time as a citizen of Vermilion had reached its end. I knew what I had to do, and there was no joy in that knowledge. I had come to this place in hopes of learning how to tame the darkness in my heart, only to be forced farther from the light than before.

Around dusk, Gent pushed a dented tin plate of red beans, cornbread and a cup of cold coffee through the trap. He did not say anything, but I could feel him looking at me through the observation slit as I ate what was to be my last meal in custody. I pushed the empty plate back through the slot and remained crouched by the door, listening to the clock-clock-clock of his boots as he walked away, locking the front door behind him. I then waited until it was well and truly dark before shapeshifting.

Although my kind are stronger than a dozen men, our natural state is deceptively slight, with long, narrow hands and crooked legs that would make us seem ill-equipped for running at high speeds and bringing down prey with nothing but our claws and fangs. The heavy manacles dropped from my transformed wrists with a shake of my hands. I stepped out of my leg shackles, my paws scuffing the floor in ritual dismissal. I could have made a symbolic show of force by literally snapping the chains that bound me, but I had neither the time nor interest in such foolishness.

Once transformed, it was relatively simple for me to yank the bars out of the window in my cell, leaving behind only empty manacles and my discarded clothes. The night was dark and windy, with lightning dancing on the far horizon. My pelt prickled, and my nostrils twitched as I caught the scent of distant rain.

I slid through the shadows towards the edge of town, careful not to be seen during the brief stutters of lightning. I needn't have worried—most of Vermilion's citizens were already sound asleep, and the few that were still awake were busy whoring, gambling and drinking themselves insensate at the Spread Eagle.

The front door of the church was unlocked—as usual—and I found the Reverend passed out, face down, at the kitchen table, an empty bottle of Mug-Wump Specific at his elbow. Next to the patent medicine was an open Bible and a pair of children's drawers. Judging from the stains, this pair of knickers was considerably older than the ones he'd taken off the little girl.

The Reverend made a slurred, grunting noise when I tickled his left ear with the point of my claws, then screamed like a woman when I tore it from his head. He sat up with a violent spasm that almost sent his chair toppling backward. Without his left ear to support them, his smoked spectacles dropped away, revealing eyes that bulged from their sockets like hardboiled eggs. He grabbed the Bible with a trembling, bloodied hand and held it as if he meant to swat me across the muzzle with it.

“Child of evil! I command thee! Get back, Satan!”

I snarled and knocked the book from his hand, grabbing him by the throat. I pulled him out of his chair and slowly crushed his windpipe. The Reverend opened his mouth wide and issued a muffled shout, his body bowing upward, as I shoved the pair of knickers down his throat. He thrashed under my grip for several seconds, and even though he was a very strong man, there was never a chance of him breaking free. And he knew it. I left him there for the others to find—his mouth filled with a dead girl's underpants. I doubted the whores down at the saloon would be surprised.

I crept from the Reverend's shack, pausing to warily eye the approaching storm. Weather on the plains has a tendency to be sudden and violent, quickly metamorphosing into the fierce devil-winds the Mexicans called
tornado.
And something told me that was exactly what was brewing out on the prairie.

I stood there for a second, studying the sorry cluster of buildings that comprised Vermilion. Pricking my ears forward, I could make out the Spread Eagle's piano in the distance, along with the occasional shriek of whore laughter. Maybe they knew there was a storm coming. Maybe not.

Buffalo-Face had been right. Whites
were
crazy, although some seemed crazier than others. Wherever the knowledge I needed to understand and contain my beast-nature might be, it certainly did not lie in Vermilion, Texas. I turned my back on the town and headed into the surrounding night.

Less than an hour later, the storm caught up with me, pummeling me with hail the size of a child's fist. The wind was so fierce it knocked me down and kept me there, as if a giant hand was pressing me to the ground. I knew that if I remained in the open, I ran the risk of being sucked into the storm—I'd seen a buffalo shoot into the sky like a stone from a sling the season before. There was so much dust and dirt kicked up by the storm, it was impossible to see more than a foot in front of me, but I had the impression that the air above me was alive and angry, seething with raw power.

Using all my strength, I crawled on my belly until I came to a dry riverbed and rolled down the bank, pressing myself against the overhang for shelter. By this time, the rain was coming down with such force it stung like nettles, and jagged fingers of lightning tore at the night sky. There was a distant rumbling that seemed to be growing closer, and at first I thought it was thunder—until I realized I wasn't hearing it, but feeling it through my feet.

I looked up just in time to see a six-foot-high wall of churning water, mud and other detritus come rushing down the riverbed in my direction. Even given my superior strength and speed, there was nothing I could do. The flash flood hit me with the force of a full-throttle steam engine, pulling me under and dragging me along as it raced towards nowhere. I surfaced once, long enough to glimpse a sliver of moon peeking through the heavy clouds, then the branch from an uprooted tree crashed into the side of my head and everything went dark.

Chapter Five

“You dead, son?”

I peeled one eye open—which was quite a feat, seeing how it was caked with dried river mud—and looked up at a clear blue sky. I opened my mouth to answer but coughed up a lung full of dirty water instead.

“I reckon you ain't dead, then,” the owner of the voice said as a pair of hands grabbed me under the armpits and levered me into a sitting position. Staring down at my mud-caked belly and genitals, I realized I was wearing my human body. Before I could gather my wits, a bottle was pressed to my lips. “Here, boy. Take a swig of this—it's good for what ails you.”

I took a swallow. The liquid tasted like a cross between turpentine and gin, and burned my throat something fierce. Coughing violently, I pushed the bottle away and vomited a mixture of river water and stomach acid.

“See? What'd I tell you?” My benefactor chuckled in amusement.

Wiping the grime and mud from my eyes, I saw a short White man with muscular, slightly bowed legs and long, wavy brown hair that hung past his shoulders. He was dressed in a badly stained and frayed white linen suit, with a stovepipe hat perched atop his head. He peered down at me through thick spectacles that made his eyes look grotesquely large. Even with my limited experience dealing with White society, I realized this man was not normal.

“W-who are you?” I managed to stammer.

The man in the once-white suit smiled and extended his hand. I took his hand and allowed him to pump my aching arm vigorously. “The name's Praetorius! Professor Praetorius! And who might you be, young sir?”

“Billy Skillet.”

I slowly got to my feet, looking around at my surroundings. I found myself standing on the bank of what was now a small river. Nearby was a tangle of driftwood, a dead cow swollen from drowning, and other flotsam and jetsam left behind when the flood waters receded.

“I was scouting to see where the best place to ford the river might be,” Praetorius explained, jerking a thumb at the covered wagon situated near the river bank a few dozen yards away. “That's when I found you. Weren't sure you was alive or not, seeing how you was completely coated in mud.”

“W-where am I?”

“I reckon we're still in Texas. Yesterday I went through Vermilion, so we're at least fifteen miles west of there.…”

Massaging my bruised skull, I sat down on an uprooted tree. “You said you were in Vermilion?”

“What there is of it, rather. Twister didn't leave nothin' but a greasy piece. No one left alive but a couple of Meskins. Had to leave. It don't pay to play to a crowd that small and that poor.”

“Play at what?” I frowned.

Praetorius smiled again and tugged on his lapels. “Why, my good man—I sell my very own Patented Hard Luck Miracle Elixir! Guaranteed to cure neuralgia, cholera, rheumatism, paralysis, hip disease, measles, female complaints, necrosis, chronic abscesses, mercurial eruptions, epilepsy, scarlet fever, cancer, consumption, asthma, scrofula, diphtheria, malaria and constipation! Good for both external
and
internal use!”

“Is it the same as Mug-Wump Specific?” I asked warily.

“Heavens no! My Patented Hard Luck Miracle Elixir is a
thousand
times more efficacious!”

I grunted and got to my feet, doing my best not to wobble. I felt like a shirt that'd been beaten clean on a rock. Every muscle and joint ached, and my guts were full of filthy water. Praetorius grabbed my elbow and helped keep me steady. He was so short I found myself peering over the top of his stovepipe hat.

“Dame Fortune has led me to find you, Billy!” he said, steering me toward the covered wagon. I was too weak to argue, and didn't have anywhere else to go anyway. “Obviously, the Fates decided that it was not yet time for you to die—they knew you had work to do! Important work! They saved you from drowning in that horrible flash flood in order for you to help me!”

“Help you?”

“That's right, my boy! I've been in dire need of assistance for some time. I require a partner, if you will. I lost my last helpmate a couple weeks back—poor Jack's horse stepped in a gopher hole and threw him.” Praetorius shook his head sadly. “Broke his neck clean through.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

Praetorius shrugged. “No use crying over spilt milk, I say. Especially now that Providence has been so kind as to deliver you to me! Here, you sit in the shade next to the wagon while I go find you some clothes. We can't have you walkin' about with your johnson hangin' out.”

The Professor disappeared into the back of the wagon, where I could hear him shifting things about. I noticed there was what looked to be a cage of some kind fixed to the wagon, balancing out the barrels of fresh water and supplies strapped to the other side. The cage was roughly four by four feet, protected from both the rays of the sun and prying eyes by a carefully draped tarp. Curious, I reached out and flipped back the canvas. I don't know what I was expecting to find, but I was definitely not prepared for what I saw.

There was a little man about the size of a five-year-old child in the cage. He wore a rag over his loins, and his twisted and stunted limbs were as filthy as any creature could possibly be without being all dirt. He had a large, long nose that connected with the top of his small skull without the interruption of a brow, making it look as if his head actually came to a point. This effect was magnified by his skull being shaved except for a patch about two inches in diameter at the top, which was bound into a tiny knot with a piece of red yarn. The little man looked at me with permanently crossed eyes and smiled like an imbecile. I had never seen anything like it before in my life. If a child was born with such deformities amongst the Comanche, it was immediately put to death, as their way of life did not make allowances for those incapable of providing for themselves.

“What is it?” I asked, pointing at the little man in the cage.

“That's it exactly,” he smiled.

“That's what?”

“His name. ‘Whatisit'. He's my side attraction, in case no one's interested in a medicine show. I display him for a nickel a peek.” He shoved an armload of old clothes at me. “Here, I found you some duds. Used t'belong to old Jack, rest his soul.”

As I struggled into his late partner's clothing, I couldn't take my eyes away from the creature in the cage. Praetorius opened up one of the provision coffers and took out some bread and an apple and passed it through the bars to Whatisit, who chewed them with the complacency of livestock.

“Is it human?” I asked.

“Well, in the lecture I give the rubes, he's a man-monkey.” Praetorius's voice suddenly took on a surprisingly deep, authoritative timbre as he launched into his spiel. “‘A most singular animal, which though it has many of the features and characteristics of both human and beast, is not, apparently, either, but in appearance, a mixture of both—the connecting link between human and brute creation.'”

“Is that true?”

“Hell no!” he snorted. “But you can't tell people, ‘Now I've got this idiot in a box here; take a good look at 'im.' That's bad for business. People want something exotic and mysterious for their nickel.”

“He's not dangerous is he?”

“Poor Whatisit don't have the brainpower to be mean,” chuckled Praetorius, reaching between the bars to give the pinhead a scratch behind the ears. “Ain't that so, old fellow?”

Whatisit giggled and, as if in answer, hurled a handful of shit at me, dirtying the front of my new shirt and splattering my chin.

“I thought you said he was harmless!” I snapped, brushing the idiot dung from my face.

“No. I said he wasn't
dangerous.
There's a difference. 'Sides, tossin' turds is his only vice. I can't deprive a man of his solitary pleasure, can I?”

And on that auspicious note, I began my tenure as a full partner in Professor Praetorius' Hard Luck Elixir Traveling Show.

It turned out the Professor was as crazy, in his own way, as the Reverend, but I liked him a whole lot better. Where the Reverend had been brooding and pensive, obsessed with sin and guilt and divine retribution, the Professor was interested in one thing and one thing only—making a dollar. He knew he was a charlatan and did not pretend to be respectable—at least with me. Another big difference between him and the Reverend was that while the Professor pushed his patented cure-all on everyone from babies at the teat to old men with beards tucked in their belts, he himself never once put lips to it.