Coyotes & Curves Page 2

  The head of Sogwili’s cock is easily two times as wide as the girl’s swollen mound, when he places it firmly over the top, and begins thrusting his hip – masturbating the girl into multiple orgasms with every thrusting of his incredible length.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “He tried to penetrate me, grandma,” Little Deer sobbed. He had tried, but the struggling of the young girl and help from the white mare, prevented him from doing so, until he could be calmed down enough to think clearly.

  “This was Sogwili, giving you, your Lust. We all are given, some more than others,” she assures, with a smile through squinted eyes on her brown wrinkled face. But why, the wise old woman ponders – Why would he try to make love to her… Could she be the chosen one? No, she couldn’t be; he would have given her some kind of message or vision for the people.

  “I don’t want his lust! I just want to be left alone,” she cries, smothering her face into the soft pile of fox and minx furs.

  “There, there,” Grandmother, soothes, stroking at the raven colored hair of the girl; who looks up slowly, tears streaming from her reddened eyes.

  ‘A sickness is coming upon the land, brought by those who seek to destroy all human life Beware, they come for you.’ Sogwili Wa’toli’s words echo in her head as she lays back into the furs; slowly falling asleep in her grandmother’s warm arms.

  The Town Rock Ridge

  One main street – that’s all there is in the small mining town of Rock Ridge – and it’s empty at the present time; with the late afternoon temperature still hovering in the high nighties. Most people hide from the mid-day sweltering sun; preferring a more comfortable time to move about. Like that of the early morning or late afternoon and evening—the latter reserved for the rougher side of humanity…and animal, alike.

  Currently the street is deserted, and a small dust devil dances in a circle, while several tumbleweeds blow across the dry ruts; that have formed in the mud after last week’s torrential down pours.

  Some animals like the rain, but not a Coyote; and especially not Red Granger, who sits on a chair in front of the small building serving as his office and the local jail.

  Red’s hat is tilted over his eyes and his chair leaned back. He’s trying to get a little shuteye, before the arrival of Major Kearney and his troop of Cavalrymen, due in from Ft. Ronson—located thirty miles away.

  The Sherriff arrived a few hours earlier, returning from his trip up North; where he checked on the activities of the local Indian bands; that have been moving down from the mountains onto their summer hunting grounds. He hated having to leave the comforts of his little town; especially to go check on Natives – He hates them.

  Texas Red, as he’s known – being that he migrated up from south Texas years ago – loves living his human life. What’s not to love? No having to forage all day for food, mating whenever you chose, and not having to sleep on the hard ground inside of a cold lair. – Although, he did miss a good root around on the ground; with the smell of fresh soil and it’s billions of little smells to entice and tickle his senses. He’d managed to take care of that little problem, by having the Boys dig out a root cellar for him underneath the cells located inside of his office. Sometimes he’d come up from below, tucking in his shirt and brushing the dirt from his hair after a nice roll. One might think he looked like he just had sex in the dirt with some crazy Mexicali whore come up from south of the Rio Pecos – rumor has it those woman will do it right in the dirt like an animal – Is there any other way?

  But what he doesn’t like is native Indians; especially non shifters – like the ones who tried stoning him to death; when he was just a cub. Red’s life started out as an abandoned shifter cub after both of his parents were murdered by the Calvary. He was forced to learn his way on his own – Living both with the Indians and the whites, and among roaming bands of Coyotes that would allow him sanctuary; until finding out he was part human at which time he was asked to leave.

  Once grown, Red moved north where he found a new life and an easier way to live; earning a living as a Sherriff in one of the several towns called Hell on Wheels – these were mostly tiny lawless camps springing up alongside of the railroads, serving the fast growing populations of miners coming west in search of gold and silver. He settled in Rock Ridge, where one by one, he put together his motley crew of shifter deputies, and took over the town. No one challenged him… until Major Kearney and the Cavalry came along.

  When Kearney first took over at Fort Ronson he established him dominance over the town, immediately challenging Red’s authority by acquisitioning town supplies – Sold by the same proprietors that Red frequently tax – leading to a private standoff between the two men, that lasted over two hours – leaving Red with a three clawed scar accenting his already ruggedly handsome face… and a deep hatred for the ageing badger Major. He could have pulled his six-shooter and shot him dead; being the faster draw of the two, having made his way up to the territory after spending time in some of the roughest cow towns west of the Missouri. If he had, he wouldn’t be here today, because the Cavalry would have strung him up before the smoke had cleared from the barrel of his gun. And if they hadn’t, there’d still be Kearny’s loyal followers to attend to; and with the odds at ten to one, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. No, revenge is a dessert better served cold.

  Red’s napping is interrupted by the hollowed pounding of trotting beasts, as four mounted riders enter the far end of town, riding abreast of each other taking up the entire width of the street. If there was anyone on the wooden boardwalks, they had disappeared quickly – slipping into the feed store, or behind a wagon – anywhere they could, stirring clear of the Motley crew.

  Three of the men, Red, recognizes immediately as his deputies – Danny Miller, Bob Jacob, or ‘Old Bob’ –as most of the crew refers to him; being that he moves and acts like a man forty years his senior—and Red’s number one, Jasper Wallace who rides next to a stranger dressed in a dust covered long coat. Jasper has been with Red for a couple of years now. They met in small roaming band of Coyote, just north of the Kansas border, before the big Gold strike hit up north. The whole band was shifter, and they worked well together, all making a good living off of the multitudes of humans traveling west on the Oregon and Santa Fe trails. That was before the old shifters from out east, got wise, and started hiring changelings bands to help guide and protect; leaving the apples, not falling so close to the tree for Red and his crew– leading to the band breaking up and going their separate ways. Jasper, originated from the same region of Texas as Red, and had proved to be loyal friend, and subject to the Alpha male and the two led off together.

  After landing in Rock Ridge – at a time when the town was overrun with wild cat miners, quick to shoot you dead, cowboys, and droves hustlers and swindlers looking to relieve both of their hard earn pay – Red signed up as the local sheriff and rest is history. He pinned a badge on Jasper and set about whipping the town into shape. He started with the cowboys, taking all of their guns as soon as they entered town; cutting down on the everyday violence, while giving himself and his crew an overwhelming edge. Anyone who disobeyed got the beating of a lifetime and told to never return to town; or they just simply disappeared… and Red and Jasper dined on fresh kill that night. The miners were another thing all together – Unless they have money, they are simply food – Rough and sinewy yes, but food all the same. And easier, than chasing down a fleet footed rabbit in the middle of the night; Shifters, being unable to hunt around town during the day, for fear of being seen.

  Danny and Bob had joined with Red and Jasper after arriving in town as drovers from Texas. They were hell bent and causing a ruckus when first confronted by the Shifter Sheriff and his Deputy Beta. A brawl broke out that ended behind the stables, when the two Coyotes were both held subject to Red in a fierce battle that had him nearly even killing Jasper in his bloody rage. Red’s one tough dude, no matter what form he’s in.

  The Sherriff sniffs the air and
catches the scent of blood coming from his men; and nothing but sweat and dirt coming from the stranger. Another deep inhale, tells Red … He’s shifter.

  The stranger’s hat is a flat brim with a low crown; it’s tilted down, shading his eyes from the sun and covering his face; hiding it from view. His white shirt is stained dark from the trail, and its wrinkled length is tucked into the worn chaps that cover his trousers underneath. A six-shooter hangs strapped to his waist, and Red senses, the man knows how to use it. Should I kill him now?

  “Who the hell is he?” His animal is near the surface and his voice comes with a slight growl; signally to the stranger he knows he’s a changeling.

  The four men halted in front of the Sherriff’s office; where their horses continued snorting and shuffling. They were held about under tight rains— keeping them in place as the cowboys dismounted.

  Jasper is first, his long body climbing down with his face showing hatred for the saddle. He kicks the toe of boot on the wooden boardwalk, knocking off a chunk of horse shit that drops to ground; while he wraps his reins to the hitching post that separates him from his cold hearted, calculated leader; sitting eyeing the crew watchfully. Jasper would prefer to make long travels with his Coyote, but Red forbids anyone to use their shifter form, unless totally alone… and only then with approval. “Picked him up along the way back,” Jasper answers quickly, making Red’s questioning seemingly less intense. The stranger knows better, everyone present knows better – the good-looking, light haired Sherriff is a stone cold killer.

  It’s Texas Red Granger; and he won’t be easily fooled. Without looking up, the stranger slaps his rains over the cross pole – it circles twice, before hanging to the ground; leaving the horse firmly secured. Ducking under the pole, he moves towards Red, stepping onto the porch and extending his ruggedly huge paw. “I’m Jacob… You can call me Jake.”

  There’s a short pause as the two men exchange pleasantries; neither being rude or trying to disrespect the other. Red is the leader here and Jake knows it, showing a slight –very slight – display of subservience by allowing Red to crowd him closer than most, as he rubs against his side – running a long snout throughout his dusty coat. Red can smell the stranger well enough without having to stick his nose up the man’s ass in broad day light –and both men forgo the archaic display.

  “Where do hale from?” Granger asks, as Jake backs away a safe distance, before taking a seat on the porch – his back against a post holding up the slanted roof shading the area from sun. Red watches as the man produce a small carving knife from one pocket of his duster and a little piece of wood from the other, and begins to carve – Testing Red’s patience.

  “Indian Territories.” His answer is firm and true.

  “You native?”

  “Half,” he answers. The stranger senses hatred in the old Coyote’s voice. Jake knows Red Granger, or rather of him. His story isn’t unfamiliar in the world of changelings, but he has seen more than his share of troubles; and made quite a name for himself dealing with his lot.

  A half breed, half breed… like me... Red ponders, staring at the man as the rest of the pack watches anxiously. No, I won’t kill him – not yet, anyway. He might be able to use a man like that. “Come on, let’s get outta this heat,” he commands, removing his hat and slicking back his thick blonde hair - looking in the sky. The silver streaks shine in the sun, showing his age and wisdom.

  Red is older than the other men, but he moves just as agile and with the mode of strength and air of confidence of a man twenty years his junior – that’s in his human form; as a Coyote, he is an Alpha Beast, with none his equal – leaving many in his world wondering why he prefers to use the form of an older attractive male. A leader should be older and distinguished; not some inexperienced looking pup. I bet in the Twilight years to come, we’ll have two thousand year old men gallivanting around as teenage wolves. Red’s outlook on things rarely parallel, those of the general public. You never really know what he’s thinking, or how he’ll react; his quiet anger, keeping all on edge. All, but Kearney – who should be arriving anytime – and Granger better have some results for him.

  “Hurry up and git in here and close the damn door!” Red yells, impatiently.

  The last of his men hurries in, slamming the door quickly behind them, eliciting another disdainful look from Red, who sits shaking his head in disgust; having already made himself comfortable in the new rocking chair – a gift, recently given to him by the buxom Miss Jessica Lily – the Red Star Hotel & Saloon’s, most lovely girl; and someone who’s been on Red’s mind all week. The thought of her making the bulge inside of his pants swell; and the hair on the back of his neck stands up as he pants deeply; all helping to calm him down, and lessening his desire to nip at Bob for being such a simpleton.

  “Jesus, Bob… Just sit down.” He finishes his sentence with a roll of his eyes, and relents from further abuse; watching Bob limp across the room.

  The old man makes his way to a leather sashed pine chair; that creaks heavily under the weight of the potbellied scruff as he drops into place. He’s old and knows his days are numbered. His face winces in pain when he lifts his leg, repositioning it to make it comfortable.

  “What’d you do to your leg?” Red questions, seeing the man’s obvious pain; and crimson coloring streaking down the side of his leather trousers mixed with sweating stains and caked mud.

  “Nothing, that won’t be healed soon enough.

  “Done got himself shot; is what the dern fool went and did, Red,” Danny, the youngest of the men, confesses in an attempt to clear his name by being the first to announce the blundering move. He doesn’t want Red coming down on him for the old turd’s mistake – which was an obvious breaking of one of Red’s cardinal rules.

  A growl exits the Sheriffs body “What do mean?” He slowly turns to Bob; who in turn curses the younger man.

  “God damn you, Danny! I told you to keep yer damn mouth shut… I was gonna tell ya, Red,” he confesses earnestly. “Honest – I just needed to sit down and rest a spell first.” There’s a long pause and the room is silent for what seems like an eternity. “Dern it, Red. Don’t look at me like that.” The man pleads, under his Bosses heavy gaze.

  “Ah shut up! … I told you all – you were going to wind up getting yourselves shot to pieces by them miners if you started running around as coyotes… didn’t I!” he exclaims, knowing exactly what happened. “They’re not like the Redskins – if they see a wild animal, they’re going to shoot it! And those men can shoot. How many times do I have to tell you idiots?” He finishes, exasperated by the many futile attempts at teach the ailing pack of Canis latrans how to survive amongst the humans. Not everyone can control their beast within – You have to be stronger; or it will take over.

  Red knows someday he’ll walk away from here…alone.

  “What’s that?” Bob asks, looking up from the wound he’s been nursing with long strokes of his tongue; making sure to clean it well. Even small pokes from a prickly cactus could turn your leg into a gangrene mess if you left it dirty; allowing it to fester up.

  Several packs have run thin over the years, due to injured animals who neglect taking care of the little things. Although this was a close call, and really just a good grazing, Bob will lucky if it doesn’t leave him limping around on three legs for the rest of his days.

  The shaking becomes stronger, and all heads turn towards the two windows, as the building rattles the glass; nearly bringing it out of the pane.

  “Well boys – the Cavalry has arrived,” Red sneers. His lip is raised exposing his teeth and a low growl rumbles out –the hairs rise on the backs of everyone present inside of the room – except the stranger; who stands tall and erect in the corner of the room surveying the situation— his duster pulled to the side, exposing the big iron pistol hanging at his side.

  Coolly he puts the finishing touches on a rollie cigarette, with a lick from along tongue, before striking a match and lightin
g the skinny smoke. “I think I’ll wait outside,” he states. “You boys look like you have private business to attend to.” He pushes himself off of the wall and heads for the door as the room watches, silently.

  “Danny, Bob, you get out too… and one of you go find Alistair. Tell him to get his weasel ass over here,” Red commands.

  The three men exit the room, and Danny makes his way across the dirt road in search of the mayor; who is most likely having an afternoon drink in the saloon. Jake, the apparent new edition to the crew, having survived his initial meeting with the sheriff, stands next to the door; and Bob occupies the lone seat that Red vacated earlier.

  The Cavalry arrives in a cloud of dust making Bob and Jake both fan the air and cover their faces; attempting to keep the dirt from filling their suffocating nostrils.

  The first man off of his horse is a shifter, Old Bob knows well; Major Kearney of the U.S. Calvary. And following him are twenty men; including his second in command, Lieutenant Malcolm Dunn – Both men are Badgers; and known for their extreme anger, and unbridled fits of rage.

  All of the men following the Major have been hand selected from some of the most influential and highest ranking families of the East Coast Shifters – Some with linage from the old countries – as far away as the Middle East and beyond – Hundreds and even thousands of years in the making.

  The short stocky Major’s spurs jingle loudly as he stomps across the wooden boards with the air of a man twice his size – because the fight of the animal within him is. The Major’s been witnessed in battle; ripping a man’s throat out with his bare hands. Some had claimed to have seen him actually biting at the throat of an enemy – this later being sighted as hallucinations brought on by battle fatigue. Whatever it was, he was a monster. However, most people saw him as an evil necessity, including the higher shifters located in Washington; who believed he would be the perfect man to remove the Indians from the lands containing their precious Gold fields… and the miners; who will be replaced by shifter loyalist working the mines –supplying money for The Cause.