TO CATCH A WOLF By Susan Krinard

A wave of human scent blew into the tent, riding on dust-laden air.

“Ah, you’re awake! Very good, very good. It did seem touch and go for a—No, no, you mustn’t try to move just yet!”

The voice was the first he had heard, the one that belonged to the old man with the whiskers. Harry French. Morgan blinked the haze from his eyes. The bulky silhouette resolved into a stout, gray-haired gentleman in a patched black coat, bright red waistcoat stretched over a prominent belly, and trousers in gray and black checks. A white, upward-curving moustache was the crowning glory of an otherwise homely face, wrinkled with age and burned by the sun.

The ability to laugh had deserted Morgan long before he had chosen the wolf’s way. But something in that comical face and broad grin woke a peculiar sensation within him, and his belly moved in a painful heave. He coughed.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” Harry French’s hands sketched a pattern of distress. “You must be dry as a bone. Water—yes, that’s what you need, and perhaps a bit of whiskey for good measure. I believe we still have a bottle or two left.” He turned as if to leave and then spun about in midstep. “Foolish, foolish. We have not been properly introduced, though perhaps you remember my name?”

His innocent enthusiasm reminded Morgan of a wolf pup still wet behind the ears. “Harry… French,” he said hoarsely.

Harry clapped his hands. “You did understand! Wonderful. Delightful. Perhaps you also recall where you are?”

Circus. Words were coming thick and fast now, but it took Morgan a moment to assemble the images. He had seen a circus, once, when he was fifteen and without a penny in the world. The wagons and tents had been set up on an empty lot on the outskirts of a prosperous Nevada mining town. He’d sneaked into the main tent and hid behind the risers to watch the show, until a member of the crew had caught him and booted him off the lot.

That boy had not remained a child much longer.

“How…” He cleared his throat, remembering how to move his lips and tongue. “How long?”

“How long have you been with us?” Harry French nibbled the edge of his moustache. “Six days, I believe. Yes, six. You’ve made quite a remarkable recovery. A bit more rest, that’s all you need.” He beamed and rocked back on his heels. “We are your friends. No need to tell us anything you don’t wish. You can rest assured that we won’t give your secret away—no, no. We understand.”

Your secret. Morgan stiffened and slowly relaxed again. His anonymous rescuers could not know anything of his past, but they had seen him Change and hadn’t the sense to be afraid.

“We’re all a little odd here, you see,” French said, as if he had guessed Morgan’s thoughts. “Oh, we’re nothing at all like the big railroad outfits, with the poor creatures in cages and great star performers. I like to think of us as a family, a family of very special people. Those who have no other place to go—they find their way to me, sooner or later, just as you have.”

He drew a pocketwatch from his vest, glanced at the face, and stuffed it back in. “Dear, oh, dear. I had promised to speak to Strauss about the food stores. Strauss is our chief cook. We are running low on victuals, and I fear my accounting skills have never been—” He broke off with an apologetic sigh. “You must think me quite addled. We have not been as prosperous of late as we might wish. A series of misfortunes—bad luck, as it were. That is why we are camped here in the wilderness and cannot offer you a decent hotel bed. I do so worry about my children, and what will become of us—but I am confident our luck has changed. Yes, indeed. You will meet the others soon.” He glanced at his watch again. “You will excuse me, dear boy? I’ll send someone with food and drink straightaway.”

Before Morgan could frame a belated response, French was out of the tent. His words resounded in Morgan’s sensitive ears for several minutes after he left.

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