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My long, unbound hair blowing wildly around my face in all directions, I stalked with fury and purpose around the barn and down the street straight to the jail to make a formal complaint, regardless that the sheriff himself probably held the same sentiment about me. Or instigated it. And boy, did I look the part right then.
I threw open the door and stormed inside, shouting, “Sheriff Wilkens, I demand that you have Tyler Anders and his evil triplets..!”
I silenced when seeing that I was alone, not even one drunk prisoner in the holding cell.
Shaking with fury, I checked around the wall and down the short hallway to the rear exit, but the entire place was empty.
Perfect. I finally had something worthwhile for the man to do, and he was no doubt at the Silver Nugget drinking himself into a stupor, gambling, or having sex with either his misguided fiancée or another skanky female employee.
Muttering blackly, I started to return to the general store before I really did something those boys would live to regret, then halted when noticing the top desk drawer half opened.
Someone had been here recently then, which meant they might be coming back. I decided to wait a minute or so to see if they would return.
Still fired up from my rage, I paced the floor a few times, then gave up and plopped in the desk chair to calm down. Nothing good ever came from me losing my temper.
The half-opened drawer drew my attention again.
Guiltily checking the front door, I opened the drawer to find an old leatherbound journal. Curious, I pulled it out and began to flip through the thick parchment pages, my heart speeding up as I read the hand-scratches.
The verbiage was English, but a very old form of it. As a historian, I was naturally curious, but when I spotted the words “Arcane” and “Arcaneous Hunt” I began to flip through the pages faster and faster.
One particular prophecy made me reread it twice. Dated almost a century prior, some seer predicted there would be a werewolf who would come from the old world to the new who would be the key to wiping out all future Arcan Hunters. The only way to stop him would be to kill the beast before he took the crown of his new pack. There was a particularly graphic means it was to be done, as well.
I recalled Bryant’s history, the details he shared that fit perfectly matched this warped prophecy.
Oh, God. Bryant!
That’s why those two Arcan Hunters were here in the territory. They were searching for this predicted werewolf king. And they almost managed to kill him with their silver-laced bullets. Twice!
Those particular hunters were dead now though, thank goodness. Nothing more to worry about. Their twisted goal to stop the prophecy didn’t...
Wait. Why was this journal in thesheriff’sdesk?
A loose folded parchment dropped out of the journal. I picked it up and unfolded it.
It was a recorded family tree of a founding member of this Arcan organization, the last branch bearing the name of Albert Raymond Wilkens.
Bryant had it all wrong then. Wilkens didn’t just hire a couple of Arcan mercenaries to run some outsiders out of his purebred town. He was an Arcan Hunter himself, the main guy, the grand poo-ba!
Or at least one of them.
“...want that dog put down for good!” Wilkens blustered from outside as he clomped down the planked walkway with ringing spurs.
Quickly I shoved the journal back into the drawer, then ducked around the corner near the rear door, plastering myself against the wall.
The door opened and closed.
I peered around the corner to see Wilkens with another man whom I didn’t recognize.
“We tried. He wasn’t at his cabin,” the man in dusty cowboy attire said. “His witch mate, neither. Don’t know where they went off to, boss.”
“I do,” Wilkens said. “The Widow Bautista told the preacher that they and her boy were headed to the Indian village today. I want you to take your men and level the entire place this time, hear me? No one’s to leave until every last Injun, their mangy wolf protector and that witch woman of his are all dead!”
I didn’t need to hear anymore.
Stealthily I slid against the wall until I reached the rear door, then inched my way outside.
With skirts flying, I ran for the barn, saddled Patty, holstering the Winchester at her side, then rode with all my strength for the Silver River bridge.
