Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (good books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

Running to the top of a nearby hill Max stuck his nose high taking in everything the wind brought his way. He caught it again… his lip curling involuntarily… not wolf, but something… something very close.

Max sprinted to the rise of the next hill, a raging desire to hunt, find and kill, burning through him. The scent was so like that of the Great Gray Wolf it was driving him mad. He turned and turned again, searching, scenting, willing the breeze to bring the spore to him so that he could lock on and find his prey.

There it was, suddenly, as clear as a lighted path, pointing him forward so powerfully he could close his eyes and follow the trail on scent alone.

He moved at full speed now, the trees and brush mere blurs of shadow and light as he ran beneath the moon’s pale and bloated glow. He passed a family of raccoons and a small herd of elk, ignoring them as the coons hunched down and the elk stamped about on nervous hooves. To Max there was one scent in all the world now and he locked onto it with all his focus, all his thought.

A great horned owl soared overhead, its massive wings keeping pace with him as he ran. The bird was unimportant. If it got in his way he would kill it. Nothing would stop him from finding this scent so like his hated enemy. He crested a hill, leapt down its steep side, rocks cascading behind him, reached bottom and dug in to climb out the far side. He bounded up and over, and there stretched a flat expanse of maybe seventy yards and another dip, this one smaller, and at the bottom — there — yes there — was the target. Not the gray wolf — not a wolf at all.

A coyote.

Larger than Max, a male with thick gray hair and eyes that glowed in the moon’s light. It stood, eating. Its chest broad, legs long and lank, its muzzle grimed in blood as it tore at the dead antelope beneath it.

Max stopped twenty yards away, his vision hardly hindered by the low light. Part of Max knew this was not his enemy. Not the Gray Wolf that killed his parents and his siblings. Yes, part of him understood, part of him knew. But his rage overshadowed the knowledge, blinded his reasoning.

The coyote looked up and locked in on Max. Its lips curled and he snarled a warning to stay away, that the kill was his. Max saw the twisting scars that marred the animal’s side and snout, testament to a life spent in battle. The fact that it was still alive was evidence of its prowess and effectiveness as a warrior. It snarled again, this time a challenge, and bunched its shoulders ready to fight.

Whatever measure of control Max might have had vanished in that instant and he became the machine that nature and man forged him to be. He charged, his speed blinding, his body a fluid work of perfection. His fury a coiled spring of hatred knotted into a mass of compacted steel-like force exploding out at the animal before him.

They collided in midair, the impact like a clap of thunder. It jarred Max to his core. He hit the ground on his side — spun — found his feet and saw the coyote had done the same. Max charged again, but his opponent staggered before he reached him, the first blow having shattered three of his ribs. The coyote almost collapsed, and then Max struck… teeth flashing… blood spraying… and it was over.

Once the battle lust drained, Max felt unsatisfied. It was not the Gray Wolf and no substitution could suffice. He made his way back to the house, his chest sore from where the two animals made contact. He felt nothing for the dead coyote, it would have taken his life if it had been capable, only regret that it was not his intended victim.

Inside the house Pilgrim slept soundly as Max stood over him. Max knew that Pilgrim could never have entered the house to stand over him as he did now. Max could have killed him with no effort.

Pilgrim was weak.

He went to the Alpha’s room. The door was open.

Max went to the bed, hopped up onto it soundlessly and stood over the Alpha just as he had Pilgrim. The Alpha lay on his back, his throat openly exposed. Max’s heart beat faster in his chest. A touch of the battle lust he felt earlier tingled within him. He was standing taller than the Alpha. Standing over him. In the animal kingdom this was a symbol of dominance, a stance of authority. All he would have to do would be to lunge forward; one bite and it would be over, quicker even than with the coyote. He bent closer, his eyes boring into the closed lids of the sleeping man, daring him to awaken, to challenge him. He breathed in the man’s scent, taking it deep into his lungs, filling his senses with the essence of his being. He could detect nothing different, nothing special about the Alpha. Why should he fear him? What was it that made him feel… inferior?

A flare of anger sparked at the thought and his lip curled. The big muscles of his shoulders snapped taught and his head dipped low, his teeth inches from the Alpha’s flesh. His eyes focused on the line to the side of the Alpha’s throat where the blood ran so close to the surface that Max could feel its pulsing heat. He moved — slowly — closer — his eyes instinctively going back to the man’s eyes.

Max stopped.

The Alpha was staring at him.

Max probed the eyes, searching for fear. In the man he found none, but deep in his own heart he felt the shame of it. He slipped off the bed and out of the room as silently as he had entered.