Panning kept the old man busy, while Benny and Jeff dressed in new duds and headed for the saloon. The bar was bustling for such a small town, though Jeff didn’t make out any other white men in the place. At the bar, Jeff placed a silver dollar down and ordered two whiskeys,

The bartender poured, but a saloon matron, with a sinister set to her dark eyes, rasped. “No. Mira. Hombre lobo.” She lifted a thick eyebrow towards Benny, and the bartender scanned the long scar on his forearm. Benny suddenly become self-conscious, and rolled his sleeve down.

“Usted está loca,” the bartender reproached her. “Vieja supersticioso! Su amigo paga con la plata.”

“Su amigo? Hombre lobo no tiene amigos. Me dan la plata.”

She took Jeff’s silver dollar and, crossing in front of the bartender, held the coin out to Benny between her thumb and forefinger, as if offering benediction with a host.   She raised the coin to Benny’s eyes, following them down and across as Benny avoided a glimpse of the dreaded metal. Jeff grabbed the coin back and slapped it down on the bar.

“We came in for a drink. Not to see witchcraft.”

“She thinks maybe you brought witchcraft,” the bartender groaned. Jeff felt the room get very close. Every man in the saloon directed his attention toward them. The bartender continued, “Let me ask you, señor, have you been bitten by a wolf?”

“What makes it your business?” Benny growled.

“This is the third night surrounding the full moon, señor. That makes it everyone’s business.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff interjected.

“In the full moon, the man bit by el hombre lobo becomes el hombre lobo.”

“A man-wolf?”

One of the Mexicans lifted Benny’s gun from the holster, and a gang of them grabbed him. Jeff jumped on their backs and tried to pry them off, but a blunt object, probably a gun butt, dropped him to his knees. As he shook his head clear, he saw Benny dragged through the saloon doors. Jeff knew the destination: the gallows. He felt for his hip and found his holster had been picked empty. He ran after the mob, knifing through until he was recognized and set upon. Several fists thumped him until his legs buckled, then he was easily tossed aside. Lying on his back, Jeff saw Benny carried to the gallows, the noose pulled over his head, and his arms bound behind him. He kicked, but they got control of his legs and strapped one ankle to the other. He tottered above the trap as the men stepped away, preparing for the drop.

Suddenly the church door burst open, and a black-frocked priest came running out. “¡Para! ¡Basta! ¿Qué derecho tiene usted a hacer esto? Ningún ensayo? No hay pruebas? Ni siquiera las oraciones por el hombre?”

The witch from the saloon shrieked something in response, and tugged up Benny’s sleeve, revealing the scar. The priest seemed to find nothing definitive about it. But the hag said something about silver, then pointed to the setting sun, “Mire el tiempo? ¡Tenemos que actuar ahora!” The crowd echoed, “¡Ahora! ¡Ahora!”

The priest would not be swayed, “Lo que está haciendo es un asesinato. ¡Asesinos! ¡En frente de la iglesia, bajo la mirada de Dios!”

At this point there followed some combative arguing, during which the mob seemed to split between followers of the witch and advocates for the padre. Each side demanded some answer from a vacillating dandy who turned out to be the town constable. He gestured for Benny to be taken in all haste to the town jail. The mob raced down the street with Benny on their shoulders, and Jeff staggered after them, catching up to the sheriff, and identifying himself as Benny’s friend. To Jeff’s relief, the man spoke English.

“Are you aware of your friend being a werewolf?”

“A where what?”

“When did it happen, that he was bitten?”

“Two nights ago.”

“When the moon was nearly full? And last night, under the full moon? How did he behave?”

“He…uh, he was sick, but…fine.”

“Fine, señor? Please do not take me for a fool. What we do is for your good as much as our own. As you will see.”

The sheriff unlocked a cell and the mob thrust Benny inside. Still bound hand and foot, he collapsed, missing the cot, onto the stone floor. The sheriff took a shotgun from the rack and broke it open. Finding two shells in the chamber, he snapped it shut. He placed the shotgun across his desk, took a cigar from his vest and lit it.

“The wolves of Malpaís, the Badlands, are not ordinary wolves, señor.”

“I don’t suppose they are.”

“What do you suppose they are, señor?”

Jeff was more concerned with Benny than he was with keeping up his end of the conversation. The sergeant thrashed on the floor, apparently in the throes of the same fever that had gripped him the previous night. The last threads of sunlight were dissipating; Benny’s cell was growing dark.

“The wolves of Malpaís were once men,” the sheriff declared. “Cursed by misfortune or El Diablo, they turn into wolves when the moon grows full, to prey on human flesh.”

Jeff watched Benny thrash; he rolled into a corner of the dark cell. Was a transformation taking place, Jeff wondered? Or was Benny just struggling against the ropes? Most of the townfolk had quit the office, even fled the streets, as the moon finally rose. An audible howl wafted through the air. Though Jeff thought it came from the street, the Sheriff snatched his shotgun and faced the cell.

A handful of men, including the priest had remained, all armed with rifles, which they directed at the cell. The sheriff nodded and one of the men raised a lantern toward the cell door, but the light didn’t penetrate, and all that was visible was the dark mass that was Benny coiled in the far corner. Another quiet howl reverberated through the office.

“Ahora tenemos que disparar,” one man whispered, thrusting his rifle forward.

“Esperar,” the Sheriff cautioned, with a nod toward the padre. “El sacerdote desea que sus pruebas.” The sheriff took a few silver coins from his vest and tossed them through the bars. A black mass bolted toward the bars and hit them with explosive force, fists like paws gripped the bars and a hideous muzzle thrust forward snapping at the gun barrels that instantly fell back. By the time the men recovered their aim, a second shock came: a window exploded behind them and a murderous beast was at their backs. A second cur followed, as men were torn to pieces by teeth, claws and errant buckshot. A lantern shattered, igniting a pool of oil on the floor.

Jeff had been thrown against the wall when the window crashed, and was able to break for the back door amidst the carnage. Whether the pack was staging a jail break or wanted revenge on Benny for interrupting last night’s hunt, Jeff saw no need to stay and find out. As armed men hurried to the burning jail, Jeff ran back to the bathhouse to rouse the prospector. The codger was just finishing with Jeff’s bath water, a pan of recovered silver at his foot.

“Is that what you got?” Jeff huffed.

“That’s the lot,” the old man winked. Jeff took a few fingers full and smeared it through his hair, then dabbed the rest in the prospector’s beard. “What the…?”

A loud howl answered his protest.

“Get dressed. Meet me at the livery.”

Jeff sprinted down the stairs and approached the front door carefully. The cracks of a half dozen rifles filled the air, as townsmen fired from store windows at the burning jail. Jeff slipped through the door and eased his way down the street toward the livery. Two wolves were on the jail roof, tearing through the adobe-covered thatch. The third wolf, Benny, at last burst through the hole they’d cut, then fell victim to their harassment. The two pack wolves asserted their dominance, barking and biting at Benny, who fought, then scampered away, inviting their pursuit. The wolves seemed oblivious to the gunfire, so intent they were at breaking Benny’s will, and forcing him to follow them. By the time Jeff reached the stable, the pack wolves had driven Benny from town, and none of the townsmen dared to give chase.

Jeff listened to the yowls recede with distance. He took his rifle from the scabbard hanging on the stable wall, then got the prospector’s as well, and handed it to him, as he came hustling in.

“Gone are they?”

“Near as I can tell,” Jeff sighed. They crept from the livery into the street. The blaze at the jail lit the night, and thick smoke wafted over the nearly full moon. A bucket brigade was busy trying to douse the fire. The brick exterior might keep it from spreading, but the interior of the jail would be completely lost. Jeff felt no great desire to help the people who’d so harassed Benny, though, having seen Benny’s transformation, he could hardly blame them. He felt bad for the priest and the sheriff, both apparently good men, now undoubtedly perished. Jeff stood a while with the prospector watching the scene, then remarked, “Might just as well get a real bed for the night.”

The prospector nodded, then ran his hand along the smooth wooden stock. “As long as we sleep with these underneath.”

Jeff pursed his lips in somber agreement. With Benny gone, the rifle was his new best friend.

***

As the town maintained a vigil through the night, Jeff and the prospector took a room at the hotel across the plaza from the church. Despite comfortable accommodations, Jeff was kept awake by a combination of jangling nerves and the prospector’s snoring. Every time Jeff started to doze off, there came a snort like an animal in the room, which had Jeff reaching under the bed for his rifle. He gave up trying to sleep well before sunrise, and made his way downstairs. The proprietress had just arrived in the kitchen, and set to work on Jeff’s breakfast.

Having filled his rumbling stomach, Jeff headed toward the cattle yard to check on the stock. He’d expected there’d be some casualties; the wolves would hardly be content with their hasty meal in the jail, even if they had no real hunger for beef. But to his surprise, none had been taken. He made sure his animals were fed, but at this point, couldn’t decide whether he’d actually drive them anywhere. Benny was out roaming the wilderness, under the spell of some evil curse. If there was a way to aid his friend, Jeff felt more than a duty to do so. But he needed more information. What exactly was known about the habits and circumstances of the hombre lobo? Jeff figured the best person to ask was the hag who’d spotted Benny’s mark. Would she be at the saloon this early?

Jeff’s question was answered as he got close to the ruined jail. What he saw reminded him of a military roll call: men, women and children lined up in ranks and files. The bartender seemed to be officiating, quite reluctantly, as the hag interrogated each of the men, apparently demanding an account of himself and his family. One hollow-eyed mechanic stood nervously at attention as the saloon crone ran her fingers down the front of his shirt, suspiciously unsoiled in comparison to his trousers. His wife looked guiltily at the ground. Had she brought him the fresh shirt?

The crone smiled wickedly, poking the sharp nail of her crooked index finger into the man’s chest and shoulder. She found a sore point, provoking a wince. Delighted, she tore his shirt open and down, revealing a laceration on his left bicep.

The man protested, “Está nada. Nada!” But the guard was upon him. They trussed his arms behind his back and positioned him against an adobe wall. His wife wailed, gesturing to her children, begging mercy for their sake, but to no avail. A firing squad formed and dispatched the unfortunate soul without any deliberation.

In Jeff’s mind, this was cold-blooded murder. Doubly unjust because this man obviously had defended the town. To reward his stern manhood with a punishment reserved for deserters offended every military principle. What man would fight to defend the town if an unlucky wound, no more than a scratch, marked him for execution?

But there was no protest from the town’s rank and file. They stood and submitted to inspection, baring their arms, and chests when requested. Finally, the crone had worked her way to the end of the last row. She turned a cold eye to Jeff and muttered to her husband. “Él.”

The saloon keeper nodded to the guard who quickly surrounded Jeff.

“You were in the jail,” the bartender said. Jeff nodded. The man pointed to Jeff’s neck and the crone squinted. Jeff touched a raw scratch. He’d hardly noticed it last night, and now assumed he’d been hit by flying glass.

“That’s not a bite,” he objected. “It’s a scratch from the glass. La ventana. La ventana rompa!”

“We would like to believe you, señor,” the man sighed. “But you see what the wolves do?”

“I wasn’t bit. When the window shattered, I was knocked to the floor. You can’t just shoot a man like a rabid dog. Even a dog, you’d tie up, you’d wait to see if he went mad.”

The crone snapped, “We wait for your friend, and look at destruction. Who has the mark of the wolf must die.”

“It’s not the mark of the wolf!”

The crowd wasn’t hearing him. Their passion was up and logic wouldn’t persuade them. They’d suffered at the fangs of the wolves, and someone needed to be held accountable. Jeff had brought the wolf among them, so he must pay the price. They bound his wrists and pushed him against the wall. He kicked and railed against them, but a few quick chops with their rifle butts put an end to his resistance. Jeff writhed on the ground, now determined to stand simply so he wouldn’t die on his knees. He struggled to plant one foot.

“Preparen!” the saloonkeeper called.

Jeff pushed himself up, wobbling, his head reeling.

“Apunten!”

Jeff snorted and spat blood, raising his head to eye his executioner.

A metallic click halted the proceedings. The twin barrels of a shotgun pressed the flesh beneath the saloonkeeper’s mandible. The prospector squinted. “Treat tourists this way,” he croaked, “y’ll get no repeat business.”

The bartender gestured for the firing squad to maintain their aim.

“You are outnumbered, señor.”

The ol’ coot was undeterred. “Reckon we can’t kill all of you. So’s we gots to be particular.” He punctuated his statement with a thrust at the jugular, “Here’s where I intend to start.”

A snap of a latch and the knock of wood on wood echoed across the plaza. All eyes shot toward the gallows, where the trap door had sprung. Benny climbed the steps. His feet were bare and bloody, his clothes were in shreds.

“These folks’re right, Jeff. Those wolves’re pure evil. I’ve been with ‘em. Twice now. Seen ‘em change back, and talked to ‘em. They know they kill, but they don’t care. They crave the power; enjoy the hunt. They say that’s how I’ll get, when I see a few more full moons. But that ain’t a way for a man to live. Not that I ain’t took life, I have. But always regretfully. Never with…lust.”

Benny fingered the dangling noose, then slipped it over his head.

“Benny, don’t!” Jeff yelled, but the sergeant moved too quickly: he tightened the rope, then hopped through the open trap. Jeff cringed as he heard his friend’s neck break. Benny twitched at the end of the rope, until the firing squad dashed forward, and, pelting his chest with lead, made the gruesome spectacle absurd.

“Stop it! Para! Para!” Even the bartender cried out to halt. As the gun smoke wafted away, Benny’s corpse swayed lazily, his blood running freely onto the thirsty earth. The firing squad seemed to have spent its passion; they did not regroup over concern for Jeff. Even the bartender and the hag seemed mollified; there had been an accounting, life for life. The duty of the living to the dead had been served.

“There is someone,” the bartender muttered, “who can tell you about that wound, if it is the mark of the wolf.”

“It’s not.”

“Señor, I hope you are right, but without proof, these men will not let you leave this town alive.”

“Who’s this someone,” the prospector demanded.

“A shaman.”

“Witch doctor?”

“A medicine man,” the crone squawked, “of the Apache nation.”

“You want take med’cine from an Apach, Jeff?” The prospector spat on the ground. “I’d like as not give him a dose or two, prescription lead.”

***