werewolfpage.com - everything you wanted to know about werewolves - but were afraid to ask
Poetry/Short Stories

By: Hernan Moreno-Hinojosa

We were hunting in south Texas, close to the Golden Triangle. The morning had warmed considerably and I had just stripped off my jacket when my compadre said, "Look. See, a lobita."

I know enough Spanish to understand that he was referring to the diminutive for a she-wolf. I looked over the rail of our blind and spied a tawny creature with a bushy tail. It walked across our line of fire oblivious to our presence. its tail and head both carried low as if tired and haggard.

What was really unusual was that it carried in its mouth one of those disposable plastic bags that grocery stores nowadays dispense with wild abandon. Something seemed bundled up in the bag.

My Compadre Roel and I never shoot anything we don't intend to eat, unless it happens to be dangerous. "Looks like a coyote," I said, reaching for my Simmons binoculars. I was about to ask Roel how he knew it was a female when we were startled by a thunderous kaboom.

"Damn," Roel exclaimed under his breath, "poachers."

"Yeah," I said looking around, "and that had to be a 7mm Remington Magnum."

Shit, that's all we needed. Some asshole poacher hunting our lease with a 7mm! The little coyote took off across the prairie, its paws not even touching the ground. Coyotes can run like that, when given enough motivation, and this one was motivated!

Story continued below


KABOOM! The little canine dropped low on its belly, never slowing down. Now I spotted the glare of a windshield in the direction of the rifle shot. The poacher was shooting at our little wolf.

"You almost hit me, asshole!" I shouted, firing a shot from my .44 Magnum into the ground just short of the windshield glare. Immediately I heard an engine rev hard, and saw a blur of motion as the jeep backed up and fled in the direction it had come from.

"Where'd she go Roel?" Roel pointed across the prairie in the direction of our pond.

There she was, still running hard, a cloud of dust trailing after her. She ran up the embankment of the pond in a frantic scramble for survival, an awesome display of grace and power born of fear, panic and something else. As she topped the crest we saw her drop the plastic bag she had been carrying. Roel and I looked at each other.

"What do you think she was carrying?" Roel thought a second then said, "Maybe she found a bag of chicken bones and was carrying it to her mate or cubs." The thought was depressing. That noble creature, struggling to survive in a world she had not made, losing her meal-ticket because some asshole with a high powered rifle had nothing better to do than to take a pot shot at her.

We were already climbing down from our blind. "Yeah," I thought aloud, "I remember a golden German Shepherd I had as a kid. He found an old bitch that he was sweet on. He'd always share his food with her."

We threw our rifles into the cab of my truck, got in and I fired up the engine. Roel carried his .243 scope equipped Winchester. We alternated. When Roel carried a long-range rifle, I carried a brush-busting short-range carbine. Today I had my lever-action .44 Mag. Winchester.

We drove straight to the pond. I was real curious about what the lobo was carrying. I parked my truck by the cow path that led to the pond and we both walked up to the bundle still on the ground. Roel was still carrying his .243 and he looked cautiously over the bank of the pond while I retrieved the plastic bag. Roel looked quickly around then said, "I guess she's long gone--"

"Compadre," I interrupted, "how'd you know the wolf was a she?" Roel grinned and walked back down toward me. "While you were taking your jacket off I spotted her squatting to pee. That bag," he added pointing, "is what caught my eye. What's in it anyway?"

I opened the bag to reveal its contents. "A pair of--I think my sister calls these kind of shoes pumps. A cheap, white sleeveless cotton blouse, a skirt. A pair of panties, bra, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, soap, a coin purse, and a pair of denim shorts."

Roel looked as puzzled as I was. "No food? This is strange. Well, see if there is any kind of ID, maybe" Roel added, "in the purse or in a pocket."

The coin purse was one of those small leather pouches, not dyed but stained dark with age, that closed with metal snaps. I clicked the purse open and dropped its contents into the flat of my left hand. We stared wide-eyed at the glimmer of gold in the late morning light. Seven coins varying in size from that of a dime to about the size of a quarter.

"Diez pesos," Roel said examining the coins, "there are two ten peso Mexican gold coins, three five peso, and two two-and-a-half peso coins. Almost an ounce of pure gold. At today's prices maybe three, three-hundred-fifty dollars worth of gold. If the coins are rare, then all bets are off."

"Maybe," I started to say, "she is someone's trained pet--"

"Pet wolf?" Roel finished enigmatically for me, although I was going to say pet dog.

Because we didn't really know what to do next, we both walked over the crest to the edge of the pond, a man-made hundred, by hundred-fifty foot, eight foot deep earth tank. The wolf's tracks led right into the water. "Wolves are good swimmers," Roel said, "she probably swam across--"

Roel didn't finish. A loud gurgling sound, and air bubbles rushing to the surface of the pond, interrupted. As we both watched in amazement a naked girl broke surface, gasped and jackknifed, diving beneath the surface again. Forever etched in my mind is the memory of that gorgeous and perfect derriere as the girl disappeared beneath the murky water.

Roel set his rifle on the bank and I dropped my gun belt. A few years ago a Bobcat tried to get into a shooting blind with me. Now I always carry my Colt Python .357 Magnum in a nylon gun belt when I hunt.

Roel and I waded into the water as the girl broke surface, once again gasping for breath. Ready for her this time we both caught her by her shoulders before she could sink again.

She was gasping for air and appeared quite frightened. "We won't hurt you." I tried to sound reassuring. Roel scowled at me and addressed her in Spanish. Of course, she didn't speak English!

"Señorita, esta bien, no le haremos daño--Miss, its alright, we won't harm you."

The girl stared incredulously at Roel. She wasn't really struggling, just trying to cover her breasts and pubic region with her hands. Damn, I'd left my jacket in the blind. I stripped my flannel shirt off and handed it to her as soon as we were out of the water. She quickly threw it over her shoulders and held it close.

"Habla ingles?" I asked in bad Spanish, "Do you speak English?"

"Bad," she answered with an accent, studying me with big brown eyes that seemed intensely intelligent. I was breathless, the girl, petite with wavy brown shoulder-long hair was so beautiful. Everything about her--her face, hair, shoulders, hands, legs. Even the pattern of scar tissue between her navel and pubic region on her flat stomach was appealing. She had a light, even tan, all over, that I suspect was her natural complexion.

"Are these things yours?"

"Si, yes!" She answered eagerly.

"Miss, we should go to our cabin, so that you can dry off and change into something warm." She appeared uncertain so I reassured her that we would not harm her.

Not really having a choice, she accompanied us to my truck for the short drive to our hunting cabin. There we gave her privacy so that she could shower, dry off, and change into some of her clothes.

"What do you think, Roel?" I asked as we waited outside the cabin.

"She's a changer." Roel answered nonchalantly.

"Changer? Oh yeah, I know she's changing clothes, but..." Then the deeper meaning Roel intended dawned on me. Roel must have read the puzzled expression on my face.

"Yes," he added, "a changer, what is sometimes called a werewolf, except that that term is masculine, and she is obviously quite feminine."

"Yes, quite feminine." I felt my heart skip a beat. I hadn't really thought about it, but I suppose I didn't believe such creatures could exist. Roel appeared indifferent. He is older than I, an old cowboy, and he has seen many strange things in his life. He wasn't worried, so why should I be? Besides, we had the guns and she had been running, for dear life, from gunfire. Somehow I knew we wouldn't need them. She would not be a threat, at least not to us.

Her Tale: