“This was the first time you’d encountered werewolves, then?” the Abbot asked.
“European-derived werewolves, yes. The native peoples have magicians, shape-shifters, skin-walkers, other sorts of wolf folk and creatures. They’re not the same things.”
“Are the European sort more or less dangerous?”
“Yes,” Rick said, his smile sly. “May I continue?”
“Please.”
Ricardo had left his pistol back at the inn. Not that he was sure it would do him any good. What were these wolf men? More important, what stopped them?
The two wolves were the advance guard for a gang of horsemen who followed. The road under his feet shook with the approaching thunder of hoofbeats, a disconcerting sound in the middle of the night, especially since it was the second such encounter. Ricardo waited.
Eight horses crowded in, wearing saddlebags packed for a journey, and eight riders done up with hats, dusters, boots, pistols and rifles, for a long ride where they might find trouble. The horses were nervous, tossing their heads, their ears pinned back. All of them unhappy and showing it, stamping and dancing, doing small battle with their riders at every step, and the riders yanking on the reins and sitting back hard, trying to ride through it. The horses were sweating, spooked. Horses and wolves generally didn’t get along, and these were being forced to. That was what it looked like to Ricardo.
The lead rider spotted him, reined his horse back, and his company followed suit. A quiet standoff ensued as they regarded each other. Ricardo hadn’t even put his coat on when he left the house. He was in shirtsleeves, in the same trousers he’d been wearing all week. At least he had his boots on. He tried to stand at ease, wearing a friendly smile, as if he greeted friends. Trusted that he’d be able to dodge if they tried to kill him.
The two large wolves settled on the side of the street, a bit behind him—he had to turn his head to get a good look at them. The creatures glared, hackles stiff.
Ricardo looked each of the men over. A couple of gringos, the others of indeterminate mixed race. The white man who rode in front dressed finely, with a burgundy vest and long duster, a thick ring on the hand that rested on his thigh. He must have been the leader.
“Buenas noches, señores,” Ricardo said.
The leader laughed, but the sound was forced, uncertain. “Who are you?” His English was flat American.
“Just a traveler passing through. I’m not looking for trouble.” In those days, he spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. The language tasted awkward to him.
“Pete, he’s a vampire,” one of the other riders hissed.
“Yes, I know that.”
“He’s not one of ours!”
“Shut up!”
Amused, Ricardo said, “This is an unusual company to be traveling through this region.”
“Is it, now? Might say the same for you.”
“I expect so.”
“Boss’ll want to talk to him,” the chatty one said.
“Quiet!”
“Pete, is it?” Ricardo said. “What is it you mean to do here in Santa Fe?”
“Stick around, you’ll find out.”
“And where is this . . . boss of yours?” Was this who Elinor warned him about? Dux Bellorum?
“Come with us. We’ll take you to him.” The leer on his face was wolfish.
“No. If he wants to speak with me, he’ll come find me.”
Pete narrowed his gaze, considering. “You’re El Conquistador, aren’t you? Heard stories.”
Why was it everyone had heard these stories but him? “That’s very flattering.”