"The Centaurs of Arizona"
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dochermes"The Centaurs of Arizona"
3/15/-3/16/1995
I.
Early in a morning outside Claymore, Arizona, with the snow almost gone from the ground and Spring settling in, Jeremy Bane pulled over to a gas station. He had leased the red Chevy Silverado at the airport and gotten used to it during the overnight drive. He was almost down by the Mexican border now and the towns were far apart. Jumping out, the Dire Wolf filled the tank and checked the tires, then wiped the windows with paper towels in his obsessive way.
Glancing at the horizon, he saw low foothills but no mountains. This part of the state was sparse desert, not like the high plateau further north. With a slight tinge of disappointment, he had realized he was not going to be anywhere near the Grand Canyon or the famous Meteor Crater on this case. Maybe when it was over, he could stick around and act like a normal tourist. If he survived, of course. Right now, though, he had enough to think about. Going into the building, he paid for the gas and bought two sub sandwiches, a big bag of pretzel sticks and a 32 ounce bottle of seltzer. In the back of his truck, he already had stowed away three gallon jugs of water as well a red container with ten gallons of gasoline. His travel bag and knapsack were tied down there as well, with everything covered by a tarp from the direct sunlight. Before hitting the road, he had stocked up for trouble as best as he could.
Standing by the Silverado, the Dire Wolf took a bite of the ham and cheese sub, gazing somberly down the highway. He was wearing his invariable outfit of all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him look even more gaunt than he was. At thirty-six, he was at a physical peak. The short black hair was thick, the narrow face was taut and the pale grey eyes were as sharp as ever. The phone call from Don Hewitt had been urgent but not enough had been said to give him substance to think about. Still, a please from one of Michael Hawk's old friends was more than enough reason to catch the next flight from Newark Airort.
Bane swung up behind the wheel and headed down the highway again. Ten miles further on, a roadside sign announced CLAYMORE ARIZONA POP 3240, with the motto, "Authentic Navajo Museum." Bane kept watch for a side road on his right, saw it and swung onto its muddy surface. Not far down the road was a small white plank house with an ancient Ford pick-up truck in front of it. Bane pulled up next to the Ford and surveyed the area suspiciously before getting out. Wariness was so deep in his nature that he would have come out here the night before and investigated the area without being seen if he could have.
As he hopped down to the still-frozen dirt, Bane saw movement through a window of the house. The front door opened and a spry old man not much over five feet tall stuck a whiskered face out. "That you, Jeremy?"
"It is," Bane called to him. "Don Hewitt, right? We haven't met but Mike talked about you."
The old man hobbled over. He was bent but still active, wearing boots, denim jeans and a red flannel shirt. Hewitt looked to be about seventy, with a prominent nose in a wrinkled face. The blue eyes were clear and alert, undimmed by age. Bane stepped closer to meet him and shook the offered hand firmly.
"Mike talked about you a lot, Jeremy," said Hewitt. He peered up inquisitively. "I didn't believe half of his stories about your team, the KDF or whatever it was called. My feet stay on the ground, thank you kindly."
"Mr Hewitt-"
"Hell, call me Scratcher. Everyone does," the old man chuckled.
"All right. Scratcher. I got your call and came out here. What's the situation?" Bane tried to sound patient, never an easy thing for him.
"Let's sit on the porch, okay? My legs ain't what they once were." Going over to a bench on the porch that ran the front of the house, Scratcher Hewitt lowered himself gingerly down, one hand on the armrest. Bane came over and dropped down next to him.
"I surely wish Mike were still around," Hewitt began. "I'd count on him in any rough patch. But hell, he was older than I am. Hard to believe he's been in the ground these twelve years."
"Maybe I can help, Scratcher. Start by telling me what the problem is."
"Fair enough. You see them hills over there? Wild horses, mebbe three hundred of them in different herds. Beautiful animals. Not as many as there was when I was your age. Well, son, there's a strange critter taking over as leader of them mustangs. I hesitate to tell you what it is, for fear you'll laugh."
Bane shrugged. "Mike must have told you some of the things we fought. Go on."
"Tain't man nor horse but both. Tain't a natural being that belongs on this Earth, son.. oh, Godammit! Here come the Wainrights." Hewitt grabbed hold on the armrest and pushed himself up. Following his gaze, Bane saw a white Jeep Cherokee had turned onto the dirt road and was speeding toward them. All of the Dire Wolf's instincts stirred and he jumped to his feet with one hand reaching behind him to loosen the Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip under the jacket. He could sense trouble in the air like the oppressive sensation before a storm breaks.
The Jeep skidded to a stop way too close to the old pick-up truck. Squeezing out of the passenger side, a huge hulk loomed up. Four inches over six feet tall, well over three hundred pounds, the big man was dressed in work pants and boots, with a baggy white shirt hanging loose over a round belly. The moonface was red and angry, encircled by bristly blond hair. "Scratcher!" the giant yelled in an oddly childlike voice. "You gone too far. You was told to stay off our land and now Pa says we got to teach you a lesson!"
Stepping down off the porch, Bane folded his arms across his chest and smiled. "You're going to have to go through me first."
II.
"Hey, Moose!" yelled a voice from the driver's seat of the Jeep. "Steady there, big fella." Swinging out an coming around was a younger man in his early twenties, small and wiry, no more than five feet seven. He had an unruly mop of thick black hair over a grinning insolent face. This man also wore boots, jeans and a work shirt but he had an old-fashioned gunbelt slung low around his hips, with the holster on his left. A black Stetson completed the image. "Let's give this feller a chance to make himself scarce."
"I'm not going anywhere," Bane told him. "Come on, 'Moose' if that's your name."
"Stay outta this, Bantam," rumbled the big man.
Behind him, Scratcher Hewitt cackled with glee and hugged himself. "Oh Lordy, this is gonna be good. I wish the whole town could be here to see it."
The giant called Moose took a step forward and reached out with big open hands, but Bane had already leaped alongside him and kicked down hard to the back of the man's knee. Moose fell heavily, catching himself just as the Dire Wolf lunged in and drove a hard fist to the nape of the neck with a sound like a hammer smacking a slab of meat. Moose groaned and sank face down into the dirt. Even before he sagged to the ground, Bane had whirled and the long-barreled 38 Smith & Wesson was extended and pointing directly at the stupefied younger man by the Jeep. Bantam's hand had dropped to his own gun but his fingers had not had that split-second needed to close on the butt.
"Your life is hanging by a thread," the Dire Wolf told him. "Open your hands all the way. Now raise them. Higher. That's good. Scratcher, go behind him and get that gun. Son, if you try to grab Scratcher, you won't be alive long enough to know you've failed."
There was a tense moment as the disarming was carried out. Scratcher Hewitt yanked the Colt from its holster and stepped back quickly. Bantam's face was flushed with helpless anger.
"Maybe some answers will clear things up," Bane said, lowering his gun but not putting it away.
"I got nothing to say to you. You done goofed when you crossed the Wainrights. We're a bad bunch."
Bane snorted and holstered his revolver. "If you only knew some of the monsters I've tackled... Ah well. Scratcher, anything you want to tell these boys?"
"Only that they better not come back. This is the last time I won't have my Marlin 30-30 within reach." The old man limped around to stand beside the Dire Wolf. "These here are just two of the clan. There's still the father Saul and the oldest son Bobcat. The Wainrights own a hundred miles worth of land and they think they're royalty."
"Watch your mouth, old man," snarled the small Bantam. "You're laughing now but you're gonna be crying soon enough."
On the ground, the hulk moaned and stirred, feebly trying to raise his head. Bane regarded him thoughtfully, as if deciding where to strike him if needed. As the Moose pressed his palms to ground and began to rise, the Dire Wolf waved Bantam over. "All right, son. Help your brother back in the Jeep and get out of here. Don't let me see you around here again." There was no attempt to sound threatening, the cold confidence in Bane's voice was enough in itself.
It took a few minutes, but Bantam managed to assist the huge Moose awkwardly back into the passenger seat. Pausing by the other side of the Jeep, he asked, "What about my iron?"
Bane took the gun from Scratcher, unloaded it and lobbed it over where Bantam caught it neatly. "Get out of here," he said again. He watched as the Jeep Cherokee backed up, made a sharp turn and took off down the dirt road at full speed. Turning back to face Scratcher, he asked "What's the story on those two, anyway?"
"The Wainwrights. Their great-grandfather staked out a claim in the hills to the west, found enough silver and copper to make him richer than anyone else in the state. By now, they own territory of a hundred square miles and believe me, they keep outsiders out!" Scratcher spat deliberately, just missing his own boot. "I got no respect for them."
Bane was looking to the west, where the foothills stretched out to block the horizon. "What was that about you being on their land, Scratcher?"
The old man scratched under his beard thoughtfully. "Yep. I was tracking that half man half horse varmint I started to tell you about. Appears there used to be a lot of them back in the olden times, they was called SEN-towers. I wouldn't have thought any were left."
"Centaurs," repeated the Dire Wolf. "Well, I've seen stranger creatures. You think there's only one?"
"No way to tell. I only glimpsed them from too far away to tell if it was the same monster each time or not." He grinned toothlessly up at Bane. "But with you here, I got a feeling we're gonna find out one way or the other."
III.
They had left the Silverado behind, parked where the road had petered out into a trail which itself had then stopped. This was rocky, rough terrain with sparse shrubs and bushes, only a few stunted pines here and there. There had not been much snow last winter to melt, and the area was drier than usual. Scratcher had a walking stick he had carved himself and he kept up briskly enough but with much grumbling and complaining. The Marlin was indeed strapped across his back.
Striding just ahead of the old man, Jeremy Bane had changed into the field suit that he had brought in his pack. The heavy boots, the pants and waist-length jacket were all black and had their own inner layer of Trom armor which was thin as silk but protected against gunfire. A different gun with a thick extended barrel was holstered on his left thigh, although the Smith & Wesson still showed beneath his jacket when he moved.
Bane was wearing the helmet, but he had left the visor up. He normally preferred to rely on his own trained senses rather than the electronic devices built into the helmet in most cases. The pale eyes were never still, he was constantly listening and sniffing the air, which meant he was poor company as far as conversation went. Scratcher didn't mind. Michael Hawk had told him a lot about this young man called the Dire Wolf and he was starting to believe it all.
Ahead of them, the stone outcroppings rose sharply to form a wall nearly a hundred feet high. This was the most elevation they had seen yet. Good-sized boulders were piled at the base of this cliff, where they had landed after breaking loose from weathering. A few tiny saplings were stubbornly pushing up between some of those boulders. Scratcher pointed up at the top of the cliff. "That there's where the Wainrights have their ranch house," he whispered hoarsely. "Their main digs are a few miles further on. I brought you round here to the back."
"Good," Bane answered in the same low voice. "Wait here."
With that, the Dire Wolf leaped up and started skittering up the sheer face of the cliff as if it was easy. Despite his gaunt frame, he was immensely strong and he had studied under masters in any skill that might prove useful in his work. Grasping barely visible protrusions, wedging his toes into crevices, he raced straight up the rock wall as quickly as most people walked on a flat surface. At the top, he vanished from sight.
"Wait here," Scratcher repeated as he watched. "Like I'M gonner do that. Crazy kid." Twenty minutes crawled by before he spotted Bane coming back down. The Dire Wolf descended at the same rate he had climbed, often dropping a few feet and catching himself on a projecting rock by one hand. Scratcher found it fascinating but nerve-wracking to watch. Twenty feet above the ground, Bane pushed away from the cliff and fell straight down, hitting the ground in a tumbling roll that brought him back up on his feet.
"Gah-DAMN," Scratcher mumbled. "Did you mean to do that?"
"What? Oh, sure. I've had lots of training. Listen, let's move on a bit. Around this outcropping here, where we won't be seen." Bane led the old man to where three pine trees stood close together. "I couldn't investigate too freely in daylight. There's a man standing by a ranch house and there was no cover I could use. He had a hunting rifle like yours and he was alert."
"Probaby be Bobcat, the oldest son," Scratcher said. "Tall guy, black beard?"
"That's him. There's a stable near the edge of the cliff, I was almost close enough to have reached it with a distraction. Noises from inside the stable were heavy breathing of three large animals. Hooves on the ground. A hand slapping flesh, probably swatting a fly. And there was a scent unfamiliar to me. Not quite a horse, not a mule. I don't recognize it." Bane stared back up at the top of the cliff. "Once it gets dark, I know I can get in there."
"Reckon some of them Centaurs in there, do you?"
"So it seems," Bane answered. He turned on his heel and started back the way they had come. "Let's go. There's a whole day before nightfall and I want to search the area for the wild horses. I have a theory."
IV.
That afternoon was spent driving through the desert, with Bane getting out frequently and studying the hard ground. They didn't find any of the horses at all, which surprised Scratcher. As Bane swung the red Silverado around and started back the way they had come, old Hewitt was shaking his head.
"I know there was hundreds of them out here. People seen them, I myself seen them. Those storms a week ago may have washed out some tracks but even hard rain don't make herds of mustangs disappear." He took a sip from a battered aluminum canteen. "Beats me."
"There's one answer. You're not going to like it any more than I do. Lots of eighteen-wheeler tracks out there, miles from any highway. Lots of tracks left by smaller trucks, crossing each other so much I can't sort them out. People have been busy out here."
"Oh, no.. That makes me wanna puke. Men came out here, rounded the horses up and probably shot some of them and took them all away. And there's only one reason for that." Scratcher did sound sick.
"Dog food. Gelatin. Lots of commercial uses for horse carcasses," Bane agreed. "Well, that explains why the Wainwrights have been more secretive than usual. My bet is that the Centaur is being used to steer wild horses for hundreds of miles around and bring them here. Maybe he has unusual control over regular horses. That's my theory, anyway."
They were silent for an awkward moment, then Scratcher said, "Say, speaking of Michael Hawk. That was quite a man. He told me he trained you so you could open your own detective agency, that right?"
"Yep. He knew so much strategy and tricks. I can't do half of them. Mike could look at a crime scene and rattle off twenty facts that experienced cops never spotted." Bane sighed. "You know he was raised by his uncle Arthur, right?"
"Youbetcha. Maybe it's not for the public to hear, but I found out about Arthur Hawk back in the 1930s and 40s. The Sting. Him and his Chinese partner, Dragon of Midnight or whatever the hell he called himself. When Mike was a boy, his Uncle Art used to bring in all kinds of experts to teach him stuff. He was raised to be the perfect crimefighter."
"That he was," Bane agreed. "How'd you know him, Scratcher? He told me a few stories about you and him doing bounty work up by the Canadian border."
"Well, sir, we wuz both from Montana, you see...."
The next hour as they headed back to town was filled with reminiscing about the late Michael Hawk, founding member of the KDF and the first member to fall in action. They told a lot of funny, embarrassing stories and Bane laughed out loud a few times. This was so rare for him that he was a bit embarrassed himself. When they pulled into the gas station just outside town, the Dire Wolf was in a warm reflective mood and Scratcher was close to tears at all the memories.
Bane filled the tank on the Silverado and once again checked the tires, wiped the windows and inspected the vehicle suspiciously. This seeming fussiness had saved his life more than once. Once the chasing and shooting started, there would be no time for pit stops. Scratcher went in to use the men's room and came out popping the top of a bottle of cold beer.
"We might think of wrapping our stomaches around some food," the old man said, then belched after a hearty swig. "Coupla good places in town. Rosita's, that's Tex-Mex. Creekside Diner is decent. And the hotel serves meals, not great but huge portions."
Bane smiled. "I'll let you decide, Scratcher. It'll be getting dark in another hour and then it'll be business. I intend to have a few words with the Wainrights."
"I bet you do. Rosita's it is, then. They got the prettiest waitress the world's ever seen, one nice thing about getting old is you can flirt with young girls and they don't take it nohow serious. Rosita's is a mile or three that way."
When they emerged from Rosita's restaurant, night had fallen with dramatic suddenness. It was a chilly clear night and the stars were so gorgeous that even Bane noticed. He put one hand on the driver's door and paused. "Scratcher, I'm going to drop you off before I go after the Wainwrights. Alone, I can do a recon and set things up to suit myself."
The old man bowed his head. "I was afraid you might say that. And yet, honest enough, I'm a mite relieved too. These legs can't run like they used to and I sure can't throw a punch like in the good days." He added, "But maybe I could wait in this Chevy with my Marlin in case you bring back a prisoner to watch?"
"I don't think so. Sorry, Scratcher." The Dire Wolf swung in behind the driver's seat and started the engine. The old man got in beside him, tugged the seat belt strap across his chest and mumbled, "Maybe you're right, Jeremy. Everything has its time."
v.
Hours later, the moon was up and Bane crept past the ranch house of the Wainrights. It was no rustic lodge either, but well equipped with a satellite dish and a redwood hot tub in the rear. A detached garage had its door up to reveal two Jeeps, one of them the Cherokee he had seen that afternoon, and a Harley. The Dire Wolf glanced back toward the stable. He had found Bantam, the youngest Wainright, on guard duty and had dropped him with a silent anesthetic dart. The man would not wake for another hour yet, and would find himself tied securely to a tree with silk cord and gagged. That left three of the clan to deal with.
Moving beyond the garage, Bane watched the lighted windows of the ranch house, seeing dark figures moving past the curtains. The smell of roast beef cooking reached him. That made him smile grimly, it meant the Wainrights would be occupied for a while, as long as it wasn't time yet for the sentry over the stable to be relieved. He moved on, toward the sparse woods and caught the clop of hooves coming up the road. Finally. Drawing back into the shadows between two trees, he waited until he caught his first sight of the Centaur.
The creature was much bigger than he had pictured. The horse part the size of a Clydesdale, and where the withers would be rose the torso of a huge, muscular man. It was hard to tell colors in the moonlight, but both the horse and the man parts seemed to be a light tawny brown. The Centaur's face was broad and sullen, with a flat nose and sunken eyes under a prominent brow ledge. Hair on the head was long, wild and tangled. As he neared the place where Bane crouched, the Centaur sniffed the air audibly and paused.
With the visor up on his helmet so his face could be seen, the Dire Wolf stepped out into the open and held up his open hands in a placating gesture. "Steady. Steady there, big fella. Whoa."
"I speak English, you fool," growled the Centaur. "I speak five languages in fact."
"Great. My name is Bane, Jeremy Bane. I'm here to help you."
"Not that it will help you, but I am Caeneus. You are not one of my enslavers." One hoof stomped the ground angrily. "And I cannot risk angering them by listening to a stranger."
"Hold on, Caeneus. There's something you need to know--"
He never finished that sentence because the Centaur charged. Bane had never needed his enhanced reflexes more than in the next minute. He jumped to one side, barely evading getting trampled, and swerved again as Caeneus wheeled about and swung a huge open hand that whooshed past him. Bane blasted a left hook that had every bit of strength he could put into it and even that powerful brute staggered as his head twisted to one side. The Centaur lunged and grabbed at Bane, who crouched and leaped up onto the creature's broad back. As the brute raised his arms, the Dire Wolf seized him in a full nelson and yelled, "Settle down, I'm on your side!"
Caeneus reached back with arms as thick as a man's trunk and seized Bane, breaking the wrestling hold and flinging him overhead, down to the ground with stunning impact. In that instant before Bane could have rolled and gotten back up, a hoof stamped down on his chest with bone-breaking force. All the air was driven from the Dire Wolf's lungs with a rush, and even through the Trom armor a rib was cracked.
The Centaur stepped back and snorted, vapor from his nostrils visible in the chilly air. "You are no common mortal," he said. "And.. you are still alive? Yes. I wonder about you. Perhaps I err in taking you prisoner but alas, that choice is denied me." He reached down and lifted the gasping Bane in both arms, carrying him like a child. Caeneus gazed down thoughtfully as he saw his opponent was beginning to recover.
"I thought your chest would be caved in like an empty eggshell," the Centaur said. He trotted toward the ranch house and bellowed in a deep voice, "Come out, you vile scum! Moose! Bantam! Bobcat! Bison! See what what walked under your very noses!"
Two brilliant lights on the roof blazed into life, illuminating the yard in front of the ranch house with their glare. The front door slammed open, and a tall man with a bristling black beard and bald spot emerged. In his hands was a Remington and he worked its lever action once. "What the hell you howling about, animal?"
Caeneus lowered his opponent to the ground and watched in surprise as Bane raised his upper body up on his elbows. Slowly, painfully, he was trying to get up. Even his enhanced healing factor needed time to work, but he was already able to breathe normally. In a minute, he would be on his feet.
Moving across the yard, the Wainright called Bobcat called, "Whoever you are, mister, I got you covered. Stay down or I'll put a few holes through you. What do you think, Pa?"
Stepping out through the open door was an older man with short silver-white hair. Like the rest of his family, he was wearing cowboy boots, Levis and a flannel work shirt but he also had a white cowhide vest on. In his hand was a Colt 45, barrel pointing down as he approached. "Let's have a look, Bobcat. Get that helmet off him, I'll cover you." Behind the father of the clan, the bulky form of Moose loomed up.
"Hey, Pa. I bet that's the Easterner who slugged me today," said the hulking man in a hurt tone. "He's tricky, watch him."
Crouching over the Dire Wolf, Bobcat held his rifle in one hand, butt on the ground, while he fumbled at Bane's helmet with the other. He could not begin to figure out how to unlatch it and Bane made no attempt to explain. With each passing second, he was recovering. Already, he felt he could go into action against Human foes. "I can't work this thing," Bobcat called over to his clan. "Some kind of lock."
"Alright, step back from him," the father ordered. "Caeneus, what's the deal with this guy?"
"How should I know?" answered the Centaur. "I was coming back from drinking at the stream when I met him. I bring him to you. Not because I want to, of course, but because of the hold you have over me. If he is an assassin, perhaps I should have let him slay you all!"
"You watch your mouth, animal! Maybe losing one or two of your kind would break your spirit." Bison raised his voice, "Hey, Bantam! You hear me? Bantam?"
When there was no answer, the father gestured at the huge Moose. "Go check on your brother. Mister, whoever you are, he better be okay."
Bane made no answer. A few seconds later, Moose came lumbering frantically back. "Pa, Bantam's been drugged. He's out like a light and someone tied him up!"
Getting up on one knee, the Dire Wolf said, "Tell him what else you found, big guy."
"The stable. It's... empty. The door's open, the lock was broken off."
"And all three Centaurs that were in there are long gone," Bane announced. "The female, the two young ones. They said they would wait for Caeneus at their lair up in the mountains." He added in a satisfied tone, "Safely away from you Wainright characters!"
"My family is safe? They escaped?" the Centaur said.
"I let them out," Bane told him. "That's what I was trying to tell you."
He had intending to take the three Wainrights himself by using the anesthetic dart gun. With the armor under his field suit, a shot from their guns would be uncomfortable but not do any real damage. But before Bane could act, the Centaur loosed a long fierce whinny exactly like that of a normal horse and leaped upon the Wainrights. He trampled them in a fury, none of them had a chance to flee or defend themselves. They were broken and dying on the ground in an instant.
Snorting and stamping his forelegs, Caeneus turned to glare at Bane, who had gotten to his feet and was rubbing his aching chest. "It seems I owe you a great debt. You said your name was Bane?"
"Yeah. That was a low scheme those cowboys pulled on you. Holding your family hostage to force you to do what they wanted. That's kidnaping and extortion. And honestly, I hated them because they sold all those wild horses to be made into dog food! That's just sleazy." The Dire Wolf looked down at the crushed bodies in front of him. "I guess you should go join your family now."
"There is still one of these enslavers..."
"Let him go. Killing these guys in a rage is one thing, I can understand that, but I won't let you just execute an unconscious man." Bane unfastened his helmet and lifted it off, brushing his damp hair back with his fingers. "Tell you what, I'll untie him. He'll wake up soon and find his family killed and no explanation. That will haunt him the rest of his life. Is that punishment enough?"
"Yes." The single word was grudgingly spoken. The Centaur reared up on his hind legs and laughed a rich, entirely Human laugh. "Fare you well, then. You have done what is right."
"Hold on. I want to know more about your kin. How did you get to America?"
Caeneus chuckled again. "Why, we have always been here. We crossed over from Asia before your red men. There are not many of us left, nor the satyrs nor the Cyclopes. Yet we still haunt the forests far to the north and the savage mountains where your breed has not reached."
"Really. But how...?"
The Centaur silenced him with an upraised hand. "Return here the next time the moon is full. I promise I will be here to answer your questions. I owe you that much! But now I must go to a joyous reunion." Caeneus wheeled and pounded off at a full gallop into the woods.
After a long moment of listening to the hoofbeats fade, Bane sighed. This was a lot to digest. He headed back toward the stable, intending to free the still drugged Bobcat. That young man would be the sole survivor of this massacre. The Dire Wolf wondered what Bobcat Wainwright would tell the police, but decided he didn't really care. Without turning around, he called, "Come on out, Scratcher. I can tell you're there."
From behind an outcropping of rock, the old man got stiffly up off the ground, using his rifle to help. "How long did you know I was around?"
"Just after the action ended. You walked up through the woods, I suppose?"
"Yep. Took me hours, I has to admit. Hope you ain't mad I came here anyway?"
Bane came over and clapped Scratcher lightly on a bony shoulder. "No. Of course not. If things had gone differently, you might have had to step in and save me. What did you think of a real live Centaur?"
"Heh," said the old man, pointing at the gruesome corpses, "He's best admired from a distance."
7/12/2015
3/15/-3/16/1995
I.
Early in a morning outside Claymore, Arizona, with the snow almost gone from the ground and Spring settling in, Jeremy Bane pulled over to a gas station. He had leased the red Chevy Silverado at the airport and gotten used to it during the overnight drive. He was almost down by the Mexican border now and the towns were far apart. Jumping out, the Dire Wolf filled the tank and checked the tires, then wiped the windows with paper towels in his obsessive way.
Glancing at the horizon, he saw low foothills but no mountains. This part of the state was sparse desert, not like the high plateau further north. With a slight tinge of disappointment, he had realized he was not going to be anywhere near the Grand Canyon or the famous Meteor Crater on this case. Maybe when it was over, he could stick around and act like a normal tourist. If he survived, of course. Right now, though, he had enough to think about. Going into the building, he paid for the gas and bought two sub sandwiches, a big bag of pretzel sticks and a 32 ounce bottle of seltzer. In the back of his truck, he already had stowed away three gallon jugs of water as well a red container with ten gallons of gasoline. His travel bag and knapsack were tied down there as well, with everything covered by a tarp from the direct sunlight. Before hitting the road, he had stocked up for trouble as best as he could.
Standing by the Silverado, the Dire Wolf took a bite of the ham and cheese sub, gazing somberly down the highway. He was wearing his invariable outfit of all black- slacks, turtleneck and sport jacket which made him look even more gaunt than he was. At thirty-six, he was at a physical peak. The short black hair was thick, the narrow face was taut and the pale grey eyes were as sharp as ever. The phone call from Don Hewitt had been urgent but not enough had been said to give him substance to think about. Still, a please from one of Michael Hawk's old friends was more than enough reason to catch the next flight from Newark Airort.
Bane swung up behind the wheel and headed down the highway again. Ten miles further on, a roadside sign announced CLAYMORE ARIZONA POP 3240, with the motto, "Authentic Navajo Museum." Bane kept watch for a side road on his right, saw it and swung onto its muddy surface. Not far down the road was a small white plank house with an ancient Ford pick-up truck in front of it. Bane pulled up next to the Ford and surveyed the area suspiciously before getting out. Wariness was so deep in his nature that he would have come out here the night before and investigated the area without being seen if he could have.
As he hopped down to the still-frozen dirt, Bane saw movement through a window of the house. The front door opened and a spry old man not much over five feet tall stuck a whiskered face out. "That you, Jeremy?"
"It is," Bane called to him. "Don Hewitt, right? We haven't met but Mike talked about you."
The old man hobbled over. He was bent but still active, wearing boots, denim jeans and a red flannel shirt. Hewitt looked to be about seventy, with a prominent nose in a wrinkled face. The blue eyes were clear and alert, undimmed by age. Bane stepped closer to meet him and shook the offered hand firmly.
"Mike talked about you a lot, Jeremy," said Hewitt. He peered up inquisitively. "I didn't believe half of his stories about your team, the KDF or whatever it was called. My feet stay on the ground, thank you kindly."
"Mr Hewitt-"
"Hell, call me Scratcher. Everyone does," the old man chuckled.
"All right. Scratcher. I got your call and came out here. What's the situation?" Bane tried to sound patient, never an easy thing for him.
"Let's sit on the porch, okay? My legs ain't what they once were." Going over to a bench on the porch that ran the front of the house, Scratcher Hewitt lowered himself gingerly down, one hand on the armrest. Bane came over and dropped down next to him.
"I surely wish Mike were still around," Hewitt began. "I'd count on him in any rough patch. But hell, he was older than I am. Hard to believe he's been in the ground these twelve years."
"Maybe I can help, Scratcher. Start by telling me what the problem is."
"Fair enough. You see them hills over there? Wild horses, mebbe three hundred of them in different herds. Beautiful animals. Not as many as there was when I was your age. Well, son, there's a strange critter taking over as leader of them mustangs. I hesitate to tell you what it is, for fear you'll laugh."
Bane shrugged. "Mike must have told you some of the things we fought. Go on."
"Tain't man nor horse but both. Tain't a natural being that belongs on this Earth, son.. oh, Godammit! Here come the Wainrights." Hewitt grabbed hold on the armrest and pushed himself up. Following his gaze, Bane saw a white Jeep Cherokee had turned onto the dirt road and was speeding toward them. All of the Dire Wolf's instincts stirred and he jumped to his feet with one hand reaching behind him to loosen the Smith & Wesson holstered behind his left hip under the jacket. He could sense trouble in the air like the oppressive sensation before a storm breaks.
The Jeep skidded to a stop way too close to the old pick-up truck. Squeezing out of the passenger side, a huge hulk loomed up. Four inches over six feet tall, well over three hundred pounds, the big man was dressed in work pants and boots, with a baggy white shirt hanging loose over a round belly. The moonface was red and angry, encircled by bristly blond hair. "Scratcher!" the giant yelled in an oddly childlike voice. "You gone too far. You was told to stay off our land and now Pa says we got to teach you a lesson!"
Stepping down off the porch, Bane folded his arms across his chest and smiled. "You're going to have to go through me first."
II.
"Hey, Moose!" yelled a voice from the driver's seat of the Jeep. "Steady there, big fella." Swinging out an coming around was a younger man in his early twenties, small and wiry, no more than five feet seven. He had an unruly mop of thick black hair over a grinning insolent face. This man also wore boots, jeans and a work shirt but he had an old-fashioned gunbelt slung low around his hips, with the holster on his left. A black Stetson completed the image. "Let's give this feller a chance to make himself scarce."
"I'm not going anywhere," Bane told him. "Come on, 'Moose' if that's your name."
"Stay outta this, Bantam," rumbled the big man.
Behind him, Scratcher Hewitt cackled with glee and hugged himself. "Oh Lordy, this is gonna be good. I wish the whole town could be here to see it."
The giant called Moose took a step forward and reached out with big open hands, but Bane had already leaped alongside him and kicked down hard to the back of the man's knee. Moose fell heavily, catching himself just as the Dire Wolf lunged in and drove a hard fist to the nape of the neck with a sound like a hammer smacking a slab of meat. Moose groaned and sank face down into the dirt. Even before he sagged to the ground, Bane had whirled and the long-barreled 38 Smith & Wesson was extended and pointing directly at the stupefied younger man by the Jeep. Bantam's hand had dropped to his own gun but his fingers had not had that split-second needed to close on the butt.
"Your life is hanging by a thread," the Dire Wolf told him. "Open your hands all the way. Now raise them. Higher. That's good. Scratcher, go behind him and get that gun. Son, if you try to grab Scratcher, you won't be alive long enough to know you've failed."
There was a tense moment as the disarming was carried out. Scratcher Hewitt yanked the Colt from its holster and stepped back quickly. Bantam's face was flushed with helpless anger.
"Maybe some answers will clear things up," Bane said, lowering his gun but not putting it away.
"I got nothing to say to you. You done goofed when you crossed the Wainrights. We're a bad bunch."
Bane snorted and holstered his revolver. "If you only knew some of the monsters I've tackled... Ah well. Scratcher, anything you want to tell these boys?"
"Only that they better not come back. This is the last time I won't have my Marlin 30-30 within reach." The old man limped around to stand beside the Dire Wolf. "These here are just two of the clan. There's still the father Saul and the oldest son Bobcat. The Wainrights own a hundred miles worth of land and they think they're royalty."
"Watch your mouth, old man," snarled the small Bantam. "You're laughing now but you're gonna be crying soon enough."
On the ground, the hulk moaned and stirred, feebly trying to raise his head. Bane regarded him thoughtfully, as if deciding where to strike him if needed. As the Moose pressed his palms to ground and began to rise, the Dire Wolf waved Bantam over. "All right, son. Help your brother back in the Jeep and get out of here. Don't let me see you around here again." There was no attempt to sound threatening, the cold confidence in Bane's voice was enough in itself.
It took a few minutes, but Bantam managed to assist the huge Moose awkwardly back into the passenger seat. Pausing by the other side of the Jeep, he asked, "What about my iron?"
Bane took the gun from Scratcher, unloaded it and lobbed it over where Bantam caught it neatly. "Get out of here," he said again. He watched as the Jeep Cherokee backed up, made a sharp turn and took off down the dirt road at full speed. Turning back to face Scratcher, he asked "What's the story on those two, anyway?"
"The Wainwrights. Their great-grandfather staked out a claim in the hills to the west, found enough silver and copper to make him richer than anyone else in the state. By now, they own territory of a hundred square miles and believe me, they keep outsiders out!" Scratcher spat deliberately, just missing his own boot. "I got no respect for them."
Bane was looking to the west, where the foothills stretched out to block the horizon. "What was that about you being on their land, Scratcher?"
The old man scratched under his beard thoughtfully. "Yep. I was tracking that half man half horse varmint I started to tell you about. Appears there used to be a lot of them back in the olden times, they was called SEN-towers. I wouldn't have thought any were left."
"Centaurs," repeated the Dire Wolf. "Well, I've seen stranger creatures. You think there's only one?"
"No way to tell. I only glimpsed them from too far away to tell if it was the same monster each time or not." He grinned toothlessly up at Bane. "But with you here, I got a feeling we're gonna find out one way or the other."
III.
They had left the Silverado behind, parked where the road had petered out into a trail which itself had then stopped. This was rocky, rough terrain with sparse shrubs and bushes, only a few stunted pines here and there. There had not been much snow last winter to melt, and the area was drier than usual. Scratcher had a walking stick he had carved himself and he kept up briskly enough but with much grumbling and complaining. The Marlin was indeed strapped across his back.
Striding just ahead of the old man, Jeremy Bane had changed into the field suit that he had brought in his pack. The heavy boots, the pants and waist-length jacket were all black and had their own inner layer of Trom armor which was thin as silk but protected against gunfire. A different gun with a thick extended barrel was holstered on his left thigh, although the Smith & Wesson still showed beneath his jacket when he moved.
Bane was wearing the helmet, but he had left the visor up. He normally preferred to rely on his own trained senses rather than the electronic devices built into the helmet in most cases. The pale eyes were never still, he was constantly listening and sniffing the air, which meant he was poor company as far as conversation went. Scratcher didn't mind. Michael Hawk had told him a lot about this young man called the Dire Wolf and he was starting to believe it all.
Ahead of them, the stone outcroppings rose sharply to form a wall nearly a hundred feet high. This was the most elevation they had seen yet. Good-sized boulders were piled at the base of this cliff, where they had landed after breaking loose from weathering. A few tiny saplings were stubbornly pushing up between some of those boulders. Scratcher pointed up at the top of the cliff. "That there's where the Wainrights have their ranch house," he whispered hoarsely. "Their main digs are a few miles further on. I brought you round here to the back."
"Good," Bane answered in the same low voice. "Wait here."
With that, the Dire Wolf leaped up and started skittering up the sheer face of the cliff as if it was easy. Despite his gaunt frame, he was immensely strong and he had studied under masters in any skill that might prove useful in his work. Grasping barely visible protrusions, wedging his toes into crevices, he raced straight up the rock wall as quickly as most people walked on a flat surface. At the top, he vanished from sight.
"Wait here," Scratcher repeated as he watched. "Like I'M gonner do that. Crazy kid." Twenty minutes crawled by before he spotted Bane coming back down. The Dire Wolf descended at the same rate he had climbed, often dropping a few feet and catching himself on a projecting rock by one hand. Scratcher found it fascinating but nerve-wracking to watch. Twenty feet above the ground, Bane pushed away from the cliff and fell straight down, hitting the ground in a tumbling roll that brought him back up on his feet.
"Gah-DAMN," Scratcher mumbled. "Did you mean to do that?"
"What? Oh, sure. I've had lots of training. Listen, let's move on a bit. Around this outcropping here, where we won't be seen." Bane led the old man to where three pine trees stood close together. "I couldn't investigate too freely in daylight. There's a man standing by a ranch house and there was no cover I could use. He had a hunting rifle like yours and he was alert."
"Probaby be Bobcat, the oldest son," Scratcher said. "Tall guy, black beard?"
"That's him. There's a stable near the edge of the cliff, I was almost close enough to have reached it with a distraction. Noises from inside the stable were heavy breathing of three large animals. Hooves on the ground. A hand slapping flesh, probably swatting a fly. And there was a scent unfamiliar to me. Not quite a horse, not a mule. I don't recognize it." Bane stared back up at the top of the cliff. "Once it gets dark, I know I can get in there."
"Reckon some of them Centaurs in there, do you?"
"So it seems," Bane answered. He turned on his heel and started back the way they had come. "Let's go. There's a whole day before nightfall and I want to search the area for the wild horses. I have a theory."
IV.
That afternoon was spent driving through the desert, with Bane getting out frequently and studying the hard ground. They didn't find any of the horses at all, which surprised Scratcher. As Bane swung the red Silverado around and started back the way they had come, old Hewitt was shaking his head.
"I know there was hundreds of them out here. People seen them, I myself seen them. Those storms a week ago may have washed out some tracks but even hard rain don't make herds of mustangs disappear." He took a sip from a battered aluminum canteen. "Beats me."
"There's one answer. You're not going to like it any more than I do. Lots of eighteen-wheeler tracks out there, miles from any highway. Lots of tracks left by smaller trucks, crossing each other so much I can't sort them out. People have been busy out here."
"Oh, no.. That makes me wanna puke. Men came out here, rounded the horses up and probably shot some of them and took them all away. And there's only one reason for that." Scratcher did sound sick.
"Dog food. Gelatin. Lots of commercial uses for horse carcasses," Bane agreed. "Well, that explains why the Wainwrights have been more secretive than usual. My bet is that the Centaur is being used to steer wild horses for hundreds of miles around and bring them here. Maybe he has unusual control over regular horses. That's my theory, anyway."
They were silent for an awkward moment, then Scratcher said, "Say, speaking of Michael Hawk. That was quite a man. He told me he trained you so you could open your own detective agency, that right?"
"Yep. He knew so much strategy and tricks. I can't do half of them. Mike could look at a crime scene and rattle off twenty facts that experienced cops never spotted." Bane sighed. "You know he was raised by his uncle Arthur, right?"
"Youbetcha. Maybe it's not for the public to hear, but I found out about Arthur Hawk back in the 1930s and 40s. The Sting. Him and his Chinese partner, Dragon of Midnight or whatever the hell he called himself. When Mike was a boy, his Uncle Art used to bring in all kinds of experts to teach him stuff. He was raised to be the perfect crimefighter."
"That he was," Bane agreed. "How'd you know him, Scratcher? He told me a few stories about you and him doing bounty work up by the Canadian border."
"Well, sir, we wuz both from Montana, you see...."
The next hour as they headed back to town was filled with reminiscing about the late Michael Hawk, founding member of the KDF and the first member to fall in action. They told a lot of funny, embarrassing stories and Bane laughed out loud a few times. This was so rare for him that he was a bit embarrassed himself. When they pulled into the gas station just outside town, the Dire Wolf was in a warm reflective mood and Scratcher was close to tears at all the memories.
Bane filled the tank on the Silverado and once again checked the tires, wiped the windows and inspected the vehicle suspiciously. This seeming fussiness had saved his life more than once. Once the chasing and shooting started, there would be no time for pit stops. Scratcher went in to use the men's room and came out popping the top of a bottle of cold beer.
"We might think of wrapping our stomaches around some food," the old man said, then belched after a hearty swig. "Coupla good places in town. Rosita's, that's Tex-Mex. Creekside Diner is decent. And the hotel serves meals, not great but huge portions."
Bane smiled. "I'll let you decide, Scratcher. It'll be getting dark in another hour and then it'll be business. I intend to have a few words with the Wainrights."
"I bet you do. Rosita's it is, then. They got the prettiest waitress the world's ever seen, one nice thing about getting old is you can flirt with young girls and they don't take it nohow serious. Rosita's is a mile or three that way."
When they emerged from Rosita's restaurant, night had fallen with dramatic suddenness. It was a chilly clear night and the stars were so gorgeous that even Bane noticed. He put one hand on the driver's door and paused. "Scratcher, I'm going to drop you off before I go after the Wainwrights. Alone, I can do a recon and set things up to suit myself."
The old man bowed his head. "I was afraid you might say that. And yet, honest enough, I'm a mite relieved too. These legs can't run like they used to and I sure can't throw a punch like in the good days." He added, "But maybe I could wait in this Chevy with my Marlin in case you bring back a prisoner to watch?"
"I don't think so. Sorry, Scratcher." The Dire Wolf swung in behind the driver's seat and started the engine. The old man got in beside him, tugged the seat belt strap across his chest and mumbled, "Maybe you're right, Jeremy. Everything has its time."
v.
Hours later, the moon was up and Bane crept past the ranch house of the Wainrights. It was no rustic lodge either, but well equipped with a satellite dish and a redwood hot tub in the rear. A detached garage had its door up to reveal two Jeeps, one of them the Cherokee he had seen that afternoon, and a Harley. The Dire Wolf glanced back toward the stable. He had found Bantam, the youngest Wainright, on guard duty and had dropped him with a silent anesthetic dart. The man would not wake for another hour yet, and would find himself tied securely to a tree with silk cord and gagged. That left three of the clan to deal with.
Moving beyond the garage, Bane watched the lighted windows of the ranch house, seeing dark figures moving past the curtains. The smell of roast beef cooking reached him. That made him smile grimly, it meant the Wainrights would be occupied for a while, as long as it wasn't time yet for the sentry over the stable to be relieved. He moved on, toward the sparse woods and caught the clop of hooves coming up the road. Finally. Drawing back into the shadows between two trees, he waited until he caught his first sight of the Centaur.
The creature was much bigger than he had pictured. The horse part the size of a Clydesdale, and where the withers would be rose the torso of a huge, muscular man. It was hard to tell colors in the moonlight, but both the horse and the man parts seemed to be a light tawny brown. The Centaur's face was broad and sullen, with a flat nose and sunken eyes under a prominent brow ledge. Hair on the head was long, wild and tangled. As he neared the place where Bane crouched, the Centaur sniffed the air audibly and paused.
With the visor up on his helmet so his face could be seen, the Dire Wolf stepped out into the open and held up his open hands in a placating gesture. "Steady. Steady there, big fella. Whoa."
"I speak English, you fool," growled the Centaur. "I speak five languages in fact."
"Great. My name is Bane, Jeremy Bane. I'm here to help you."
"Not that it will help you, but I am Caeneus. You are not one of my enslavers." One hoof stomped the ground angrily. "And I cannot risk angering them by listening to a stranger."
"Hold on, Caeneus. There's something you need to know--"
He never finished that sentence because the Centaur charged. Bane had never needed his enhanced reflexes more than in the next minute. He jumped to one side, barely evading getting trampled, and swerved again as Caeneus wheeled about and swung a huge open hand that whooshed past him. Bane blasted a left hook that had every bit of strength he could put into it and even that powerful brute staggered as his head twisted to one side. The Centaur lunged and grabbed at Bane, who crouched and leaped up onto the creature's broad back. As the brute raised his arms, the Dire Wolf seized him in a full nelson and yelled, "Settle down, I'm on your side!"
Caeneus reached back with arms as thick as a man's trunk and seized Bane, breaking the wrestling hold and flinging him overhead, down to the ground with stunning impact. In that instant before Bane could have rolled and gotten back up, a hoof stamped down on his chest with bone-breaking force. All the air was driven from the Dire Wolf's lungs with a rush, and even through the Trom armor a rib was cracked.
The Centaur stepped back and snorted, vapor from his nostrils visible in the chilly air. "You are no common mortal," he said. "And.. you are still alive? Yes. I wonder about you. Perhaps I err in taking you prisoner but alas, that choice is denied me." He reached down and lifted the gasping Bane in both arms, carrying him like a child. Caeneus gazed down thoughtfully as he saw his opponent was beginning to recover.
"I thought your chest would be caved in like an empty eggshell," the Centaur said. He trotted toward the ranch house and bellowed in a deep voice, "Come out, you vile scum! Moose! Bantam! Bobcat! Bison! See what what walked under your very noses!"
Two brilliant lights on the roof blazed into life, illuminating the yard in front of the ranch house with their glare. The front door slammed open, and a tall man with a bristling black beard and bald spot emerged. In his hands was a Remington and he worked its lever action once. "What the hell you howling about, animal?"
Caeneus lowered his opponent to the ground and watched in surprise as Bane raised his upper body up on his elbows. Slowly, painfully, he was trying to get up. Even his enhanced healing factor needed time to work, but he was already able to breathe normally. In a minute, he would be on his feet.
Moving across the yard, the Wainright called Bobcat called, "Whoever you are, mister, I got you covered. Stay down or I'll put a few holes through you. What do you think, Pa?"
Stepping out through the open door was an older man with short silver-white hair. Like the rest of his family, he was wearing cowboy boots, Levis and a flannel work shirt but he also had a white cowhide vest on. In his hand was a Colt 45, barrel pointing down as he approached. "Let's have a look, Bobcat. Get that helmet off him, I'll cover you." Behind the father of the clan, the bulky form of Moose loomed up.
"Hey, Pa. I bet that's the Easterner who slugged me today," said the hulking man in a hurt tone. "He's tricky, watch him."
Crouching over the Dire Wolf, Bobcat held his rifle in one hand, butt on the ground, while he fumbled at Bane's helmet with the other. He could not begin to figure out how to unlatch it and Bane made no attempt to explain. With each passing second, he was recovering. Already, he felt he could go into action against Human foes. "I can't work this thing," Bobcat called over to his clan. "Some kind of lock."
"Alright, step back from him," the father ordered. "Caeneus, what's the deal with this guy?"
"How should I know?" answered the Centaur. "I was coming back from drinking at the stream when I met him. I bring him to you. Not because I want to, of course, but because of the hold you have over me. If he is an assassin, perhaps I should have let him slay you all!"
"You watch your mouth, animal! Maybe losing one or two of your kind would break your spirit." Bison raised his voice, "Hey, Bantam! You hear me? Bantam?"
When there was no answer, the father gestured at the huge Moose. "Go check on your brother. Mister, whoever you are, he better be okay."
Bane made no answer. A few seconds later, Moose came lumbering frantically back. "Pa, Bantam's been drugged. He's out like a light and someone tied him up!"
Getting up on one knee, the Dire Wolf said, "Tell him what else you found, big guy."
"The stable. It's... empty. The door's open, the lock was broken off."
"And all three Centaurs that were in there are long gone," Bane announced. "The female, the two young ones. They said they would wait for Caeneus at their lair up in the mountains." He added in a satisfied tone, "Safely away from you Wainright characters!"
"My family is safe? They escaped?" the Centaur said.
"I let them out," Bane told him. "That's what I was trying to tell you."
He had intending to take the three Wainrights himself by using the anesthetic dart gun. With the armor under his field suit, a shot from their guns would be uncomfortable but not do any real damage. But before Bane could act, the Centaur loosed a long fierce whinny exactly like that of a normal horse and leaped upon the Wainrights. He trampled them in a fury, none of them had a chance to flee or defend themselves. They were broken and dying on the ground in an instant.
Snorting and stamping his forelegs, Caeneus turned to glare at Bane, who had gotten to his feet and was rubbing his aching chest. "It seems I owe you a great debt. You said your name was Bane?"
"Yeah. That was a low scheme those cowboys pulled on you. Holding your family hostage to force you to do what they wanted. That's kidnaping and extortion. And honestly, I hated them because they sold all those wild horses to be made into dog food! That's just sleazy." The Dire Wolf looked down at the crushed bodies in front of him. "I guess you should go join your family now."
"There is still one of these enslavers..."
"Let him go. Killing these guys in a rage is one thing, I can understand that, but I won't let you just execute an unconscious man." Bane unfastened his helmet and lifted it off, brushing his damp hair back with his fingers. "Tell you what, I'll untie him. He'll wake up soon and find his family killed and no explanation. That will haunt him the rest of his life. Is that punishment enough?"
"Yes." The single word was grudgingly spoken. The Centaur reared up on his hind legs and laughed a rich, entirely Human laugh. "Fare you well, then. You have done what is right."
"Hold on. I want to know more about your kin. How did you get to America?"
Caeneus chuckled again. "Why, we have always been here. We crossed over from Asia before your red men. There are not many of us left, nor the satyrs nor the Cyclopes. Yet we still haunt the forests far to the north and the savage mountains where your breed has not reached."
"Really. But how...?"
The Centaur silenced him with an upraised hand. "Return here the next time the moon is full. I promise I will be here to answer your questions. I owe you that much! But now I must go to a joyous reunion." Caeneus wheeled and pounded off at a full gallop into the woods.
After a long moment of listening to the hoofbeats fade, Bane sighed. This was a lot to digest. He headed back toward the stable, intending to free the still drugged Bobcat. That young man would be the sole survivor of this massacre. The Dire Wolf wondered what Bobcat Wainwright would tell the police, but decided he didn't really care. Without turning around, he called, "Come on out, Scratcher. I can tell you're there."
From behind an outcropping of rock, the old man got stiffly up off the ground, using his rifle to help. "How long did you know I was around?"
"Just after the action ended. You walked up through the woods, I suppose?"
"Yep. Took me hours, I has to admit. Hope you ain't mad I came here anyway?"
Bane came over and clapped Scratcher lightly on a bony shoulder. "No. Of course not. If things had gone differently, you might have had to step in and save me. What did you think of a real live Centaur?"
"Heh," said the old man, pointing at the gruesome corpses, "He's best admired from a distance."
7/12/2015
