Stories From The Old West Novels & Stories

The flickering candlelight cast a gentle glow on their faces, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and friendship. Alexandra, her eyes gleaming with excitement, recounted her most memorable moments driving and branding cattle. She regaled them with tales of the thundering hooves, the smell of the open range, and the satisfaction of successfully flanking a spirited calf. Her passion for the work shone through her animated storytelling, captivating her friends and leaving them in awe of her newfound skills.

It was easier than giving them the satisfaction of seeing me want recognition. That night, the elders gathered around the great fire. Stories were told, as they always were when the hunt had gone well. Most were old tales of battles won, of alphas who had crushed enemies under tooth and claw. But one story caught my ear, because i hadn't heard it before. It was told by elder Calen, his voice low and gravelly.

“Who started the ‘old ways kept us strong’ talk?” He shifted, uncomfortable. “No one who’ll put their name on it,” he said. “Whispers in the tavern. Behind closed doors. The same voices who grumble that ‘peace made us soft’ when a patrol misses a stray wolf.” “Names,” Rhea said. He hesitated, then rattled off a few—an older trapper, a widow who’d lost two sons to an outbreak years ago, a younger man who’d been a boy during the worst of the war and had heard more story than truth.

So he’d lived through many wars and fallen packs. When I was a pup, he was the one who’d told me about the rogues, witches, and vampires who fought and failed to take the Midnight Pack from the alphas before me. My favorite story of his, though, was the Legend of the White She-wolf. I would always beg Uncle Panton to tell me that one. Something about it fascinated me.

“Guapo, are you making this up?” “Come on,” he chuckled, grabbing my chin delicately. “Why would I make up such a silly story? The only reason we didn’t hear about it here is that it didn’t happen on our territory. It happened in the territory of the West Pack.” “The West Pack?” I repeated, my voice a low hum. “Isn’t that the one where their sister murdered their parents and then ran off when it was time for punishment?” “That’s the one!” He snapped his fingers, grinning. Although, his voice went several octaves lower, and he inched closer. “I heard that she was actually innocent and it was a conspiracy. I don’t know how true it is, but dang.”

Of course, when you're stuck in the car with someone for that long you learn a lot about a guy. The family now lives on a small farm, after the larger areas were divided up between family members and urban sprawl made its impact on the area. Texas, as they say, does everything bigger and apparently that includes population size as well. Back in the day of Huxley's grandfather and great-grandfather there were more cattle to be had and cowboy rustling to do. He didn't bring the big leather cowboy hat with him to Vegas, but it doesn't take much of an imagination to picture one on his head as he shares the stories he heard from his own ancestors.

he scoffs. "A werewolf rock. How would I know anything about humans? They never interested me," I say dismissively. "They were men who roamed the wilds of America, untamed and free. They carried guns like these and settled their disputes by dueling," he says in a lecturing manner.

It started as confusion, a furrowing of the brow, then morphed into a terrified awe that slackened his jaw. "The stories," he whispered. The rifle lowered an inch. "The rumors from the Foundry. They said a girl stopped a firing squad. They said she ate a Feral wolf." A Rogue behind him took a step back. His claws scraped against the concrete—a sharp, fearful sound. "The Void Witch," the Rogue whimpered. "The stories are true?" Rax asked. His voice lost its grit, becoming thin and reedy. "Every word," I lied. The stories were probably exaggerated. I hadn't eaten a wolf. But legends were better armor than kevlar.

Why did I survive when everyone else died? The questions had no answers. He had learned to live with them, but they never stopped asking. He had drifted westward over the years, drawn by rumors and half-forgotten legends. There was a pack in the west, the stories said, led by a wolf with fur like moonlight and eyes like stars. A Hidden Luna, the stories called her. A wolf who carried the light of the old world. Ronan didn't believe in legends. But he had nowhere else to go.

The packless, dark-skinned cowboy had been managing to survive in the human world by working as a mule for drug traffickers across the southern Texas border. It had been a situation born of exploitation and necessity, and it hadn’t taken more than a single conversation to convince Sterling to give up that life and join their cause. The rebel wolf had been all too eager to leave, to find a home and a purpose.