Wolves by D. J. Molles Page B

the slaver’s wrist, struggling for the man’s revolver as the slaver grunts and groans and tries to hang on.
    Huxley plants the muzzle of his revolver deep into the slaver’s belly and fires. The man’s belly rips open with the force, and things spill out. Rigo slips in the gore once, but recovers and snatches the revolver from the man’s weakening grip.
    There are screams from outside the room, from the main, center room. Huxley lurches to his feet. He is standing in a cloud of gunsmoke. The room smells like bowels now, and blood, and acrid sulfurous fumes. Rigo is on his feet, fumbling with the revolver, but getting it cocked.
    Huxley doesn’t look down at the mess he’s created. He doesn’t care. He wants the blood.
    He steps over the dead slaver and pushes the tarp out of the way.
    In the center room, the last slaver is lying dead on his belly. Jay is mounted on the man’s back. He is holding a third revolver, but he’s got it like a club and Huxley can see hair and bone and blood on the curved grip of it. And when he looks down he can see that there isn’t much left of the slaver’s head. Jay’s eyes are wild and strange. He is baring his teeth like an angered animal, and there are speckles of red all over his pale skin. He looks up at Huxley, and a little bit of humanity returns to him.
    His voice is a husky croak as he rises unsteadily to his feet. “We should go.”

Chapter 9
    Huxley bursts out of the whorehouse into bright, almost blinding daylight. He doesn’t have time to wait for his eyes to adjust. He turns in the direction of the gate and starts running. He’s got a revolver in one hand, a satchel of stolen goods in the other, and a scattergun on his back. Gunsmoke and the smell of death trail after him.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he can see townspeople scurrying, some standing and staring in shock. But none of them move to intervene.
    Up ahead, the gate is rising again. It had closed behind the slavers, but the guards had heard the shooting from inside. They are coming. They are going to fight.
    The gate is about chest level now.
    Huxley can only see one sentry—the other must be cranking the gate.
    Rigo points his own revolver at the one standing there, just as the gate rises enough for them to lock eyes. The sentry has his rifle up to his shoulder. Rigo stutters to a stop, kicking up dust, and he aims and fires, catching the sentry in the shoulder and spinning him.
    Before the sentry can recover, Jay hits him, ripping the rifle out of his hands and sending it skittering across the ground. He punches the man in the gut and shoots him in the head as he doubles over.
    Too bad. We didn’t have a choice.
    They were dealing with slavers.
    They knew. They had to know.
    Huxley turns the corner, just outside the gate, sees the other sentry standing there, hand still on the cable that raises the gate. Huxley points his revolver at the sentry, finger on the trigger.
    â€œWhere’d the three men come from?” he yells.
    â€œWhat?” the young sentry yells, terrified. His eyes are going back and forth between the man that Jay has just killed and Huxley. He is completely confused.
    Huxley shoves the revolver barrel into the young man’s face, nearly touching his nose. “The three men who just came in here with these bags of goods. Where’d they come from? What direction?”
    The young man raises his hands up with his palms spread. The gate clatters down as he releases the cable. The guard closes his eyes. Like he is expecting the shot to take him. “They came from the south,” he quavers. “From the south.”
    Huxley growls deep in his throat, and he does not know himself. “You move from that spot before me and my men are out of sight, I swear to God in heaven I’ll shoot you dead, boy.”
    â€œI won’t move! I swear I won’t!”
    Huxley pulls himself away from the sentry. Rigo