“Frank, this is Jack McCall,” Bill said. “He claims he is a garou hunter.”
“Woof hunter,” Jack McCall said.
Woof hunter was a term lone vigilantes often used. Frank had a hard time taking them seriously.
“I was gonna hunt ’em by myself,” Jack McCall boasted, “but then I heard y’all were comin’ into town.”
“Going to take who on?” Frank asked.
McCall ignored him. “Is your whole gang here?”
“Everyone but Charlie, but we can fill him in later. He’s in charge of this outfit.”
“But, I thought . . .” Jack pointed at Bill. “I thought you was in charge.”
Jane took off her hat. “Bill’s what you might call the face of the operation. Charlie’s the head.”
Frank nudged her. “Isn’t the face part of the head?”
Jane shoved him back. “I think you’ve been sniffin’ too much perfume, pretty boy.”
“Are you two . . .” Jack McCall let his words trail off and grinned.
“Ew, no,” Jane said, lurching away from Frank.
“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” Frank said. “Sorry, Mr. McCall. Please tell us about the”—he sighed—“woof.”
“Well, I came into some information that the foreman at the old P and G factory is a super bad woof,” said Jack McCall.
“That’s interesting news,” said Bill. “But I’m afraid I’m retired from garou hunting.”
McCall gazed thoughtfully at Bill. “A woof hunter ain’t never retired, is he?”
Bill didn’t answer.
“Besides, this isn’t some insignificant woof,” added McCall. “This here’s the Alpha.”
The group went still. The general public was not aware of the existence of the Alpha. People were terrified enough by the thought of a regular werewolf, without adding a werewolf supervillain to the mix.
Jack McCall puffed out his chest. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m in the know about the Alpha.”
“How do you know that this man—this foreman at the P and G factory—is the Alpha?” Bill asked slowly.
McCall scratched at the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t know know, exactly. I heard—through my various woof-hunter sources—that he’s a leader in the Pack. A big boss. Like top tier. So I reckon he’s probably the Alpha. And then I reckoned that if I’m gonna go up against the Alpha, maybe I need to bring along the best garou hunter in the world. That being you, Mr. Hickok, sir.”
“I see. What’s the man’s name?” Bill asked.
“Mr. Badd. He’s super bad.”
“His name is Super Bad?” Frank asked. “What were his parents thinking?”
Jane snorted.
Jack McCall looked confused. “No, I’m just telling you how bad he is, but also, his name happens to be Badd, but spelled with two d’s.” His face broke into a smile again.
Frank realized where he’d seen Jack McCall before—playing poker, in one of their previous towns. Possibly St. Louis? He didn’t remember the place for sure, but he definitely remembered that smile, the constant show of teeth, and how he hadn’t been able to tell whether Jack McCall was bluffing.
“Hmm,” Bill mused. “I read something in the paper this morning about a series of strange disappearances at a factory. If it’s the P and G, they could be missing because they’ve been turned.”
Frank scoffed. “Who would turn a bunch of people in the same place? It would draw too much attention. The Alpha would know better than that.”
Bill narrowed his eyes. “You’d think.”
“We should go check it out,” Jack McCall said.
Frank’s pulse sped up. “But what about the show?”
“The show will go on as scheduled,” Bill said. “We still have a few hours. Keep an eye out the window for Charlie. When he gets back, we’ll investigate the factory.”
While Bill continued asking Jack McCall questions—mostly about how he came by all this information—Frank leaned on the window frame and gazed outside. If this Mr. Badd fellow did turn out to be the Alpha, and they caught him tonight, that’d be it. Bill would retire. Frank would inherit the show.
Everything would change.
He spotted a blond girl down on the street in front of the general store, looking at her reflection in the glass. She was one of the girls from earlier—the one who adored a man with a dog—all prim and proper and pretty. She was pinching her cheeks when a stagecoach came by, splashing mud onto her fancy dress. She shrieked like she was mortally wounded, so loudly the shopkeeper rushed out to see what was the matter. The girl sobbed and gestured to her soiled dress. The shopkeeper put his arm around her and ushered her into the store.
Frank sighed. Maybe George had a point. None of these girls were right for him. But what girl would be? She’d have to be the type who didn’t mind life on the road, and who didn’t mind guns, and who got along with George. That seemed like a tall order.
He caught sight of Charlie coming up the front steps. “Dad,” Frank said, interrupting whatever his father had been saying to Jack McCall. “Charlie’s back.”
“Good,” Bill growled. “Get your things. We’re going Alpha hunting.”
THREE
Annie
Annie was a fairly regular young lady.
She loved her family, liked sewing pretty dresses, and wanted to build a good life for herself and those she cared for. But the way she went about those things was somewhat, ahem, not regular for a sixteen-year-old girl living in Darke County, Ohio, in 1876.
Back up a few days from the last two chapters and take this touching family moment for example:
Imagine a sprawling farm (deeply in debt, but still growing food—just not quite enough to get the family through winter), and a farmhouse (packed tight with siblings), and a mother and daughter working together in the kitchen, having what most folks would consider a pretty serious argument.
“I’m not getting married!” Annie glared at her mama, who was kneading bread on the table.
“Yes, you are!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are!”
“You’re not the boss of me!”
“I am so. I’m your mama.”
Annie grimaced. Mama had a point there. But still, Annie’s refusal stood.
“I’m not getting married.” She shoved her hands back into the rabbit she’d hunted earlier and was cleaning now. “And you can’t make me!”
“Don’t talk back to me, young lady, and don’t begin a sentence with a conjunction.” Mama worked the dough harder and harder. The bread was going to end up a rock if she wasn’t careful. “We all need to do what’s best for the family, Phoebe Ann, and for you, that means getting married.”
Annie finished quartering the rabbit, trying not to make a mess of the task simply because she was upset. These weren’t Mama’s words—well, some of them were. Mama had always been invested in her daughters’ romantic attachments (or in Annie’s case, the lack thereof), but lately, her mama’s interest had turned into obsession.