“The Wolves themselves are terrible fearsome,” Telford went on, moving smoothly from one campfire story to the next. “They look sommat like men, and yet they are not men but something bigger and far more awful. And those they serve in far Thunderclap are more terrible by far. Vampires, I’ve heard. Men with the heads of birds and animals, mayhap. Broken-helm undead ronin. Warriors of the Scarlet Eye.”

The men muttered. Even Tian felt a cold scamper of rats’ paws up his back at the mention of the Eye.

“The Wolves I’ve seen; the rest I’ve been told,” Telford went on. “And while I don’t believe it all, I believe much. But never mind Thunderclap and what may den there. Let’s stick to the Wolves. The Wolves are our problem, and problem enough. Especially when they come armed to the teeth!” He shook his head, smiling grimly. “What would we do? Perhaps we could knock them from their greathorses with hoes, sai Jaffords? D’ee think?”

Derisive laughter greeted this.

“We have no weapons that can stand against them,” Telford said. He was now dry and businesslike, a man stating the bottom line. “Even if we had such, we’re farmers and ranchers and stockmen, not fighters. We—”

“Stop that yellow talk, Telford. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Shocked gasps greeted this chilly pronouncement. There were cracking backs and creaking necks as men turned to see who had spoken. Slowly, then, as if to give them exactly what they wanted, the white-haired latecomer in the long black coat and turned-around collar rose slowly from the bench at the very back of the room. The scar on his forehead—it was in the shape of a cross—was bright in the light of the kerosene lamps.

It was the Old Fella.

Telford recovered himself with relative speed, but when he spoke, Tian thought he still looked shocked. “Beg pardon, Pere Callahan, but I have the feather—”