The Pistoleer dismissed the ranting priest, departing amid a cacophony of gunfire with the girl pasted to his shadow. His third .45 now empty, he slowed his steps just enough to reload his weapon as they neared the chamber’s entrance. His six-gun half-filled with three fresh cartridges, he snatched the girl’s wrist to quicken her step, but she slipped upon her tattered dress as he did so—right before a bloodcurdling scream erupted from the altar. Turning to gather the fallen girl up, the Pistoleer shifted his gaze to the sacrificial stage to find the source of the hellish wailing; he was sorry that he did.

Where once the priest had stood, there now emerged a hideous beast from within a brimstone mist—a creature wolf-like in appearance, but a creature utterly unlike any animal that the masked man had ever seen. A mocking semblance of its former humanity, this “wolf-man” stomped forward upon two huge, dewclawed feet and proffered its freakish arms to display a dagger-array of glistening claws.

The Pistoleer had long ago heard Indian tales of “skinwalkers”—human beings who, by sorcerous means, were able to shape-shift into animal form to carry out their evil intents; but he had never suspected the truth behind such outlandish legendry—until now. He tried to blink the abomination from his sight, scarcely managing to retain his shaken reason as the nightmare before him confirmed its existence by howling unto hell itself. Its soulless wail abating, the werewolf darted its red eyes about the room, and fixed its malignant gaze upon the girl and her savior. Gathering their scent through the caverns of its flaring nostrils, the beast curled its froth-spattered lips to reveal carnassials the size of scalpels.

“My God!” the girl groaned, climbing the masked man’s leg to reach her feet. “What is that thing?”