A series of lupine shadows trot down the grassy road, the few lights of San Marcos flickering like fireflies beneath a swollen silver moon. With a few yips and barked cries they part ways. The slowest of the shadows lopes down the road, headed for a darkened shack made of uneven clay bricks. The grey-dun wolf draws itself up into a the shape of a worn out man, his whiskers matching the color of his fur. Beneath a band of black cotton that serves as an eye patch, his expression is a lopsided scowl, a few twisted teeth emerging from both above and below. He fusses with the lock for a moment before sweeping in, the rustling of vermin audible in the moments before he lights a battered kerosene lamp.
MacLeod sags into his chair, a ramshackle affair of welded metal masquerading as upholstered furniture. He winces and clamps a few dirty fingers to his neck- a gash, shallow but long, mars his throat. He grunts in irritation as his hand comes away slick with blood- but he stands up and moves about the room, filling small, disarmed ratcage traps with bits of hardtack and stale cheese. He doesn't see the rats, but he knows they are there, and that they will appreciate their meal when the light dwindles and fades.
He saves a chunk of hardtack and a beer for himself and he sinks back down into his favorite chair, munching, putting his savagely mismatched false teeth to use.
MacLeod stops. He hears something approach on the road, something with fast steps bereft of stealth or care. He chugs the last of the beer and then smashes the bottle it into a jagged weapon as heavy blows rain down on the door.
The old Bonegnawer moves- in the blink of an eye he is across his hovel, flinging open the door to confront the nocturnal visitor, bottle neck in hand.
It is Manny Garcia. The man raises his hands apologetically at first, but then he squints, noticing that the Uncle is bleeding. MacLeod shrugs it off, asks why his nephew is visiting his favorite relative at this time of night. Garcia points back towards town, says there is a job opportunity, that a group of European gringos want to pass into Comanche land, that they need muscle and guides. MacLeod thinks for a moment, and says it is dangerous. Garcia grunts and says that it is dangerous around town too, but at least this way they will make some redbacks. MacLeod nods, mentioning that there has been peace between the people of San Marcos and those who dwell in the hills... but it is best to be quick. The old Garou rummages in his cramped hovel, eventually returning with a steel dagger.
"If yeh meet trouble, the ratling inside this here dagger will alert the good spirits and they'll help yeh out. If'n I don't hear back in a fortnight..."
Garcia marveled at the gift and held it up to the moonlight, where it shone. "Thank you Uncle. Do not worry, we will be back before then, and we will have a feast, thanks to our newfound riches!"
"Steady there, nephew. We have our claws full here in town. Too many damn walking corpses in the streets..."
"Then you stay and fight! Uncle, you have given me this gift. We will likely be safer in the hillcountry than here, at any rate..."
The young man laughs and after a rough hug, disappears into the gloom.
Home 
