This excerpt is from chapter six of the first book in the Sundowners series; gunslinger Gabriel Tyler and Indian shaman Jonathan Fivehawk are approaching the town of Stonetree, where the population has mysteriously vanished, when they are suddenly attacked...

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"What the heck was that?" asked Tyler, drawing his gun.

"Up on the hill!" Fivehawk shouted, turning his horse to face the sound.

Tyler's eyes widened. Back along the trail they had just come down, four black dogs were waiting, panting and sniffing at the air. Their pelts were the colour of coal, their eyes flashing.

"We can out-run them. They'd never be able to get down to us before we reached the valley."

Fivehawk held his breath as the dogs tensed, rocking back. "Ride, quickly!"

Tyler and Fivehawk cracked their reins and their horses, skittish and jumpy at the barking, broke into a gallop. Tyler glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes widened as the dogs leapt from the ridge as one. For a second, he thought the animals would dash themselves on the rocks below, until flaps of skin billowed out from their flanks. Tyler had once watched a flying squirrel glide between tree branches; these hounds used the skin folds in the same way, dropping to ground and rolling to their feet. In another heartbeat they were on them, barking and snapping at the horses' legs, jumping up to bite with mouths full of yellow fangs.

Tyler kicked out from his stirrup and connected with the head of one dog, but the beast merely rolled with the impact, springing back to its' feet without loosing a step. Fivehawk cried out as the trailing dog skipped off a rock and sank its' teeth into his left arm, biting through the layers of buckskin. With a flourish, he drew a knife from his belt and plunged it into to beast's neck. The canine creature howled and fell away, a trail of ichor that was quite definitely not the colour of blood streaming behind it.

"These things bleed green!" exclaimed Tyler.

The hound he'd kicked was springing into the air alongside him, its' powerful legs launching it to shoulder height. Tyler's nose wrinkled as it howled at him, the stink of rotting meat on its' breath. Crossing his arms, he rested his pistol on his forearm and fired at the beast; the demon-dog squealed and dropped into the dust. His horse reared up over the corpse, braying loudly.

Fivehawk struggled to control his stallion. The dogs had snapped at its' haunches, carving out bites and scratches that drove it wild with pain. The horse's gallop had become a mad, uncontrolled run down the trail, crashing headlong toward the creek that bordered the town.

"Whoa!" cried the Indian, fighting to calm the terrified animal. The horse's hooves churned up dust and stones in its' frantic rush, and if Fivehawk could not stop it, his mount would run straight over the steep bank of the creek and fall. Leaving Tyler behind, the two remaining dogs harried Fivehawk's horse savagely, nipping and snapping. The Indian grabbed at his rifle, but the beasts rammed into his arm as if they knew what the weapon was, sending it spinning away behind him. He shouted a curse at them and slipped himself low on his saddle, turning backward to catch a glimpse of the dogs. With one hand he gripped the medicine bag around his neck and pulled out a sliver of wood.

The closest dog saw an opportunity and leapt into the air at Fivehawk's trailing leg, its' skin wings catching a draft of wind. The Indian's blood ran cold as the hound's eyes locked with his, its' jaws parting to reveal teeth like needles, but he shook it off and flicked the wooden dart toward it. The dog bit down on the sliver by reflex and howled in pain. Tumbling into a ball, it fell away and shuddered; the pure herb that soaked the dart would have cured a man of fever or a rattlesnake bite, but in the blood of an evil creature it became a deadly, instant poison. Fivehawk pulled himself back into the saddle and grimaced.

The creek was only moments away, and his horse was still running wild, its' nostrils flaring. The last hound was still with him, barking and snarling, and with a mighty leap it shot into the air, the meat-stench breath overwhelming him as it dove toward his neck. The dog saw only prey, only Fivehawk's throat and the thought of the hot blood inside. The Indian brought up an arm to deflect the attack, but instead caught the cracking sound of distant thunder. In mid-air, the diabolical canine's head spat green gore and it fell to the ground, a puppet with its' strings suddenly cut. Fivehawk pulled hard on the reins and brought his charger to a stop mere hoof-steps from the banks of the creek. The animal was still petrified, but with the terror of the dogs removed, it began to calm down.

In a moment, Tyler was along side, with Fivehawk's lost rifle in his hand.

"Winchester Model of 1873," said Tyler, examining the gun, "A good rifle if ever there was one."

Fivehawk could not hide his amazement. "You shot the beast out of the air?"

Tyler nodded, and despite the rush of fear he still felt, he managed a smile. "Looks like my good aim saved your life. I guess I couldn't have that hellhound sinking his teeth into you."

He handed the Indian back his weapon. Fivehawk nodded his thanks and returned it to his holster, then turned his attention to his horse. While Tyler's mount had only suffered light scratches, his had bites and wounds that would fester if not properly cleaned.

"We should find a stable, quickly. There may be another pack nearby." He sucked in a breath, feeling renewed pain from the bite on his own arm.

Tyler's face turned nervous again. "More of them, you say? I don't think I want to be around to meet any reinforcements." He paused. "What kinda dogs were those, anyhow?"

"Guardians, Tyler. Our enemy is nearby."

© J.Swallow, 2001.

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