Down the worn trail, gravel crunched beneath hooves, resonating through the desolate land. Samson, an unwilling wanderer swept up in the relentless march of time, found himself in the fading embrace of the setting sun. The riverbed whispered stories of passing cattlemen, leaving Samson to navigate the encroaching shadows with only Dawson, a steadfast hound, at his side.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, twin peaks reminiscent of monstrous horns, Samson halted, feeling the chill of the approaching night. Dawson, attuned to the secrets of the night, growled in a restless vigil. Samson reached for a lantern, a feeble act of defiance against the impending darkness, casting a timid glow on the landscape. A calf trailed behind, its soft sounds providing a lifeline to this world between light and shadow.
Crickets chimed in with their nocturnal serenade, and soon, the silver face of the moon illuminated the land. Heavy footfalls on the grass hinted at an ominous presence. Samson, always ready for the harsh dance of survival, raised his deer rifle—an unspoken plea to the wilderness.
In the silvery embrace of the moonlight, Dawson took his post, a guardian against the approaching abyss. "Easy," Samson whispered, and Dawson responded with a growl that shattered the silence, aimed at the figure standing between two sentinel pines. The shadowy presence stood still, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light, unnerving and unblinking.
The horse mirrored Samson's unease, but Dawson stood firm, sensing the malevolent unknown that loomed. No sign of another hound emerged, but Dawson's instincts remained sharp. His fur stood on end, a silent warning against the advancing darkness.
"Dawson," Samson said. The hound lunged at the figure in the dark, the harsh darkness of the pines consuming them momentarily as a snake-like hiss filled the air, and the wild calls of Dawson echoed before growing distant.
Samson followed Dawson, his deer rifle ready for action. He found him standing amidst a break in the trees, the thudding and breaking of foliage like falling snow. Dawson looked up, snapping towards something clutched to the trunk. Samson saw the silvery white eyes, and he aimed the rifle and fired. The figure vanished, launching upwards like a leaping lion. Soon, the human form of the creature was revealed in the moon's glow: black glossy hair and olive skin.
"Raphael!" Samson lowered his rifle, and right as the clawed hands of the person made contact with the exposed chest of Samson, Dawson latched around the midsection of the creature and tackled it to the ground. The two fell into a struggle, dust kicked into the air like snow, and the battle seemed relentless. Until soon, the many teeth of Dawson clenched into the man's throat, and Samson felt grief as he watched a fellow Angelos' eyes close as the struggle ceased. Dawson let go of him and rejoined Samson's side. Dawson was limping, and he wondered why the wounds of a wolf had taken so long to close, as they had never taken so long to heal when the occasional bobcat or snake had sunken its fangs into his companion.
Samson took his hat from his head and jumped down from the horse. He took his buck knife from his belt and raised it into the air. He trusted Dawson, but he knew better than to assume that something playing dead was to be trusted. Samson felt his wings spread outwards from his back unhindered. "My lord," he whispered. He saw a black spot, much like a red rose in a red clay terracotta pot color. He dropped his knife and backed away. Some voice in his head told him to flee as he saw it. The eyes of the son of Raphael snapped open, and like he was pulled upwards, Samson heard the spine and joints crack and give as he was pulled to his feet before he launched himself towards Samson once again.
Dawson launched himself towards the son of Raphael, and a hand was raised towards him, fingers stuck together like that of a slap. Before it shot out from his elbow like a strike, only for the almost impenetrable ribcage of the hound to give. The son of Raphael hissed, and the hand penetrated the wolf's chest, forcing him down to the forest floor, while the remaining hand held Samson's throat and his back to a tree. Samson struggled to breathe and tried to reach for his rifle, while the other hand attempted to claw at the wrist of his attacker. Dawson fell limp against the forest floor, and Samson watched the body of Dawson burn away, back to human form. Lying in Dawson's spot was his human form. His body was not much bigger than that of a teenager, as the false youth of the immortal hound was revealed. Samson saw his sight begin to darken right before his face contorted to that of horrific pain. He stared forward at his attacker, and in the moon's glow, Samson watched as ivory fangs revealed themselves. And Samson felt terror for the final time.
Ishmael moved gracefully among the pews in the humble chapel, a well-worn broom in his grasp. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked down at his clothes as he slowly awoke to his surroundings. Months spent dwelling in a small room, which had left their mark on his shirt, initially hung on a laundry line in a far-off prairie. The jeans, fashioned from wagon cotton, clung to him as if the tailor had certainly earned his wages. A Vicar approached, requesting his help in tidying up the chapel. Ishmael willingly set to work, sweeping away the dirt.
As he moved over the brick tile and past the deep brown oak pews, a distinct sound caught his ear—the rhythmic click of spurs and the soft thud of leather boots. A young man, appearing no older than 25, engrossed in a small pocket bible, came into view. Despite his modest attire, akin to passing cattlemen glimpsed through stained windows, he exuded an unexpected air of dignity. Ishmael's broom grazed the man's boots, and he raised a leg to aid his task.
"You read?" the man asked, turning a page and tipping his leather hat inquisitively.
"Never learned how," Ishmael responded honestly.
"How old are you, boy?" the man questioned.
"22, come spring," Ishmael replied.
The man, revealed as Michael Smith, shook his head in disbelief. "That old, and you've never read a word?" The man's eyes repeatedly darted to the silver cross on his wrist, a curiosity not lost on Ishmael. He briefly considered the possibility of the man being a thief but dismissed it.
"I'm Michael. Michael Smith," the man introduced himself, extending his right hand. Ishmael observed the lack of malice in the man's demeanor and accepted the handshake. The absence of callouses confirmed that Michael was no cattle worker.
Michael, radiating warmth and friendliness, inquired if Ishmael was seeking employment. As their conversation progressed, Michael unveiled their journey to Nevada, stirring Ishmael's skepticism. He had heard rumors of scalp hunters preying on Native Americans, a nefarious activity he abhorred.
"You're hunting for native scalps?" Ishmael asked, concern lacing his voice.
"No, no. You see," Michael clarified, producing a slip of paper with a photo of a man in a military uniform. "This man has a bounty on his head, set by the officials at Fort Hood. He's wanted for a skirmish in the Colorado territory."
Ishmael scrutinized the man's face once more, noticing the cross medallion adorning his neck. "You're going to kill him?" he pressed.
"We were asked to capture and return him. Judging by your appearance, you've likely been a worker—your hands are rough, and your clothes resemble those of a rancher rather than an altar boy," Michael remarked. Ishmael grappled with a twinge of shame.
"Don't worry about it, kid. When I was your age, I had to wear beaver pelts, given the scarcity of cotton in these lands," Michael assured, placing his hat on Ishmael's head.
"If you haven't fought before, I'll teach you. But I must warn you, I've been told I'm quite bad at it," Michael offered.
"Sorry, but you strike me more as a preacher or a banker than a fighter," Ishmael quipped.
"I've heard that many times. But let me tell you, my mother raised a fighter," Michael grinned, invoking humor.
"Do you fancy yourself the next Davey Crockett?" Ishmael teased.
"I'm just a bit peculiar, like him," Michael laughed, inviting the notion of an intriguing journey yet to unfold.