The west is no place for a werewolf, Cheney thought as he sniffed at the tracks of a stagecoach long since passed.
His ears swiveled towards the sound of riders approaching on horseback; lips peeled back over teeth glistening at the promise of flesh other than rabbit for the first time in weeks. He crouched behind a bend in the trail, legs bunched for the fatal spring that would inevitably end in a terminal scream of horror.
There were two of them, a ten-gallon man on a pale horse and beside him an Indian astride a spotted palomino. Cheney snarled and leapt but the big man cleared leather in the span of a thought; bullets winked through the air, moonlight glinted from their silver surface an instant before they slammed home.
“The west is no place for a werewolf,” the big man said.
J.C. Towler spins tales of mystery and science fiction, and is particularly fond of scribbling a chilling horror tale. While delighted to write about other people going into scary places and being devoured; not so keen on that adventure himself. The Outer Banks of North Carolina is his home which is odd since he’s afraid of swimming in the ocean and doesn’t eat fish. He can be summoned through firstname.lastname@example.org.