“So you got folk and cattle turnin’ up dead and your doc says they are all torn to shreds.”
“Do you know what it is? What are we dealing with?”
The mayor’s gaze was fixed on Judge, awaiting the expert’s answer to the deaths of his townspeople.
“Sounds like you got some wolves or coyotes to deal with…and I ain’t no trapper.”
The mayor sat back in his chair, a little disappointed in Judge’s mundane conclusion.
“Wolves and coyotes don’t usually walk like men, do they, Mr. Judge. You see, one of the ranchers actually saw this…creature…pick up a full grown cow and rip its throat out and then carry it off into the night.”
Judge leaned forward, and his voice lowered in seriousness.
“That’s a might more serious, there George. You got yourself a dang werewolf…maybe a pack of them.”
The mayor’s eyes turned a bit more worried than before. “Can you kill them? Can you rid my town of these things?”
“Sure as sound on the goose. This deal costs more than actual. These werewolves are folk just like you and me when the sun’s up and the moon’s down. More than likely, you seen or know these folk.”
“This is a stagecoach depot, Mr. Judge. New folk come and go everyday. Come to think of it, though, there was a couple gambling boys that have stayed a few nights at the hotel. They play faro every day at the saloon. Some say they had a mighty short temper between ‘em.”
“Sounds like I need to stop by the saloon for somethin’ more potent than Adam’s ale, George. I’ll go take a look at your boys…see if I can make one way or another on ‘em. Come on, Helsing.”
Judge got up to leave as he tipped his hat to the mayor. Helsing trotted along behind him.