The crimson dawn stretched across the Arizona mesa like spilled blood, painting the jagged rocks in shades of fire and warning. In the distance, a lone figure moved through the sagebrush, his horse picking its way carefully between the thorny branches that clawed at leather and flesh alike. Samuel Carter had been tracking the missing cattle for three days now, following hoofprints and broken twigs deeper into territory that most sensible men avoided.
The Apache wars had ended years ago, but the land still held its secrets close, still whispered of dangers that went beyond the threat of hostile tribes. Out here, where civilization thinned to nothing more than scattered bones and forgotten dreams, a man could lose more than his livestock. He could lose his soul. Samuel pulled his hat low against the rising sun, squinting at the tracks that led toward a narrow canyon carved deep into the red stone. His horse, a sturdy bay named Ranger, snorted nervously and tossed his head.
The animal's ears swiveled forward, then back, as if catching sounds that human ears could not detect. Something was wrong. The very air seemed to hum with an electric tension that made the hair on Samuel's neck stand on end. Samuel Carter had seen plenty of strange things in his twenty-eight years riding the Arizona Territory, but nothing had prepared him for what waited in that canyon. The missing cattle lay scattered at the bottom of the ravine, their bodies torn and bloodied in a way that spoke of predators far more dangerous than the usual coyotes or mountain lions that plagued ranchers in these parts.
He dismounted slowly, his boots crunching on the loose shale as he made his way down the steep slope. Ranger whinnied behind him, the sound echoing off the canyon walls like a warning bell. The smell hit him first, that sharp metallic scent of fresh blood mixed with something wilder, more primitive. Something that made every instinct in his body scream at him to turn around and ride hard for the safety of town. But Samuel Carter was not a man who ran from trouble. His father had built their ranch from nothing, carving out a living from this hostile land with nothing but determination and a rifle. Samuel had inherited both the land and the stubborn streak that came with it.
He pulled his Winchester from its saddle holster and checked the chamber, the familiar weight of the weapon a small comfort in the growing unease. The cattle had been arranged in a rough circle, their bodies positioned with an almost ritualistic precision that sent chills down Samuel's spine. This was not the work of ordinary predators. This was something else entirely, something that spoke of intelligence and purpose. He knelt beside the nearest carcass, studying the deep gashes that marked its hide.
The wounds were too clean, too deliberate to be the work of claws alone. A low growl echoed from somewhere above him, a sound that seemed to come from the very walls of the canyon itself. Samuel spun around, raising his rifle toward the sound, but saw nothing except shadows and stone. The growl came again, closer this time, accompanied by the soft pad of feet on rock. Then he saw them. They emerged from the shadows like ghosts made flesh, their gray and silver forms moving with the fluid grace of creatures born to hunt. Wolves.
A pack of them, their yellow eyes fixed on the intruder who had dared to enter their domain. Samuel counted at least six, maybe more, their massive forms radiating a menace that made his mouth go dry. The alpha male stepped forward, a magnificent beast whose coat bore the scars of countless battles. His lips pulled back to reveal teeth like ivory daggers, and his growl deepened to a rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very ground. Samuel knew he was in trouble.
One wolf he might handle, maybe two if he was lucky. But a full pack in their own territory was a death sentence. That was when he saw her. She moved among the wolves like one of their own, her dark hair wild and tangled, her skin bronzed by years under the desert sun. She was small, perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, but she carried herself with the confident grace of a predator.
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