Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

off the river in his old life, before the Alpha came. The water in that river was crisp and cold and pure, and the misted air tasted like the water; so unlike here where the air was dry and hot. It crusted his nose and dried out his mouth and throat. The winter snows of Colorado were a pale imitation of the thick blankets of white that matted the hillsides and woods of Germany’s Black Forest. Here there was snow for a day or three and then the white, hot Sun would melt it all away, followed by the scalding winds that sucked any hint of moisture from the green of the plants, leaving them brown and prickly like the barbs of a desert cactus.

Thoughts of his homeland brought back memories of the second time he saw the Alpha.

After the bear’s attack, it had taken over a week to heal sufficiently before feeling strong enough, and hungry enough to hunt for food. The hole in the dog’s side gave him little trouble but the injuries to his hip and thigh were more serious, causing a pronounced limp that hampered his running speed. He took down a rabbit near dusk, snapping its neck with an efficient jerk that killed it instantly. By now Max’s hunger had become a burning need and he shredded the fur from the carcass and gulped it down, bones and all.

Max would have tried for another, there were certainly many tracks in the snow for him to follow, but his hip was aching badly so he dug a small trench in a bank of snow and curled into a tight ball to wait out the night.

Four hours later the dogs attacked. Max killed the first three and the two that followed. They advanced in pack formation closing from several directions at once, but still, Max slaughtered them. Close on their heels came the men.

They broke from the trees in a ragged circle, converging as one on the sounds of the dying dogs. Max was finishing the last of the hounds as the humans entered the small clearing. They held lights and weapons; clubs, and guns and something else.

Max curled his lip but made no sound. He had never fought a man. He’d been chased by farmers and herders after killing their chickens and sheep, but none ever came close to catching him.

These men were different. They were not farmers or herders. They were hunters. Max saw it in their eyes, smelled it sweating from their pores. They had come for him.

The closest of the men pointed something and there was a popping sound. Twin darts of barbed steel trailing hair thin wires whipped at Max. But he was too fast. He jerked to the side, dragging the hound still held in his jaws, and harpoon shaped darts hit the dying beast, one in the shoulder, the other the hip. There was a strange crackling sound and Max felt every muscle in his body convulse. All thought was blanked by a white sheet of agony. His legs buckled and he started to fall, but the movement ripped his forgotten prey from his teeth and the instant he lost his grip the pain stopped.

Max staggered back, shaking his head.

A second man ran forward and aimed a Taser at him. Max jumped at the sound of the pop and ducked low, charging the man as the darts flew harmlessly over his head. He caught the man on the side, fury adding additional strength to his already terrible bite.

The man screamed and struck at Max with his light. Max ignored the scream and the powerless blow and allowed his weight to pull him back behind the man, twisting Max’s neck and ripping jagged furrows through the man’s coat and shirt and flesh. Max released and landed lightly in the snow, instantly charging again and slashing the man’s hamstring. The man screamed again.

Chaos.

The men were all trying to run toward their fallen comrade, their lights casting weird shadows on the snow and trees and brush. There were yells and cries, and all of it worked in the wild dog’s favor.

Max flew from the short range of their lights into the forest, sprinted thirty yards to the north, cut to the left and then straight back at them.

The hunters had just become the hunted.

They were all huddled around the fallen man, their eyes blinded to the dark by their own lights. Max ran in, the sound of his paws and chest breaking path through the snow masked by the men’s confusion and running mouths.

His grip caught the man at the farthest end of the group at the base of the skull, his teeth covering nearly ear to ear. The force of the hit shoved the man face down in the snow. Max turned and shot straight up into the next nearest man’s crotch. The man croaked like a giant bullfrog and tried to shove his hand into Max’s face. Max released the man’s crotch and tore off his thumb and two fingers.

A club grazed Max’s head and he spun about on his attacker, teeth bared. This man was huge, maybe as tall as the bear Max had fought, with a bushy blond beard and mustache and wild thick eyebrows. He swung again with the club, his long arm, lashing out like a striking snake.

The club missed. Max didn’t.

Only the man’s thick coat saved him from a severed brachial artery. As it was, all four canines punctured the man’s bicep.

The dog was just about to go for the man’s, now exposed, throat when he heard the pop sound again. He tried to jump and spin, but his injured hip cost him a fraction of speed and the barbs punched into his side and neck and the white sheet of pain was all he knew until a darkness, deeper than the night, stole upon him.

13

Gil

Max’s new friend sat on my left, his bleeding shoulder pressed against the door. Skull Shirt was on my right,