Jonathan’s eyelids flickered open. It was still nighttime, with the hollow sound of wind tumbling through the valley – and something else.

A guttural snarling, low in the throat, underlined the palpable silence as Jonathan rolled his head over to look. About fifty feet away, two yellow orbs stared at him as the moon lit the area.

The desert wolf paced back and forth, still growling as it eyed the petrified form of Samson. Jonathan slowly reached for the satchel on the horse’s flank, where he stored his rifle during the night. The wolf didn’t wait.

In less than four seconds, Jonathan was wrestled to the ground by a huge blunt mound of fur, all muscle and claws raking at his body. He managed to elbow it off and tug his gun from the terrified horse.

The wolf snapped back immediately and lunged for him, knocking him to the ground this time. He dug his heels into the dirt and scrambled back as it plowed ferociously down – then, finally, he detached the bayonet from the rifle and plunged it into soft fur.