"Now, Kenneth Mulvaney, begone with your shadowless curs! You've work to do tonight!"
Whimpering with fright, the pack broke and fled. No less defiant, the grim gray wolf retreated down the slope. And with him cowered the white she-wolf.
When Mulvaney looked again, the Shape had disappeared. The night was clear and cool. From far away, his furry ears caught the tinkle of water splashing in the creek.
He understood now. He knew he was a were-wolf descended of were-wolves. The circumstance of his parents' death was no longer a mystery. Nor was the soulless look in his eyes and in those of these others without explanationnor the lack of shadows to follow them. They were all of the same tribethey all bore the taint of Evil.
The thought was a hateful one. What unholy pact with Satan had made this possible? Through how many misty aeons of time had it continued in force? Whose dark deeds and hellish desires had brought about this unwilling bondage upon generations unborn?
These were questions Mulvaney might never answer. The truth was sealed with the silence of Time. He knew instinctively that the were-beast glorified in its unclean condition. Some strain of the human in him found it repulsive. He would find a way to deliver them of their detestable slavery.
But how? Could they return to the state of men and defeat the purpose of the Beast by refusing to serve? The thought was a vain one. The pack had gathered around him, and the moon shone pitilessly down. The ground under each heaving belly was bright with its glow. The were-folk had no shadowsand no souls.
"Tonight we drinkor we die," spoke a grizzled old wolf. "Can you lead us to fresh blood, Kenneth Mulvaney?"
Mulvaney was aware of the thirst that had begun to torment his own throat. The moon had passed the zenith and time was short. They must make the kill before dawn; it was their portiontheir Fate.
The problem confronting Mulvaney could not be solved before they had fedas feed they must. Into his wolf-brain crept an image of the cattle that had grazed contentedly in the fields. But they belonged to the villagers. It was senseless to kill them and rob themselves.
The gray wolf threw back its head, muzzle to the moon, and howled. The keening cry released hot excitement into his feverish veins. The blood of the witch-folk of old Ireland awoke in him, exultant and maddening. He departed toward the nearest pine-clad slope at a swift, easy lope.
At his flank ran the white she-wolf, fierce joy and pride blazing in her eyes. Behind them streamed the wolf-pack, silent as shadows, shadowless as they sped.
The cowboy on the paint pony halted at the edge of the sleeping herd and rolled a cigarette. His companion was a somber shadow in the moonglow.
"Fust time ridin' night range ever gave me the willies," he growled. "How 'bout you, Larry?"
Larry shrugged, tilted back his sombrero and applied a match flame to the twisted end of his cigarette.
"Dunno, Joe. You're a nervous type." He inhaled vigorously. The glowing tip of the cigarette lighted his lean face with a ruddy flare.
Joe's horse moved restively, swaying the man in the saddle.
"A funny business," he said.
"Yeah." Larry pondered the situation. "The old man and the padre has got their heads together. Maybe the padre's rightI dunno."
"In which case," opined Joe gloomily,
