Teaser from an eventual novel, intended to be a sequel of sorts to "Disciples of the Wind"

Outlaw’s Cross
Chapter 1: The Hunted

He rode up into the foothills of the San Juan Range, north from southwest. His queer green eyes were those of a panther—vigilant to the point of obsession. But then, as a panther harried by a neverending succession of hunting-hounds, he would have been a fool to let his alertness lapse.
His right arm hung in a sling, one that was encrusted with the crumbling Indian-red plaster of old blood. Even after three weeks and the care of a woman who professed to hate him, the deep wounds he had taken broke open periodically under his new exertions. Infinite miles behind lay the deaths he had caused, the savage swath he had cut across the Nevada rangeland—and the grave of the man he had considered his one true friend.

Hearing the faintest whisper of sound, the rider wheeled his night-black stallion, the well-oiled Peacemaker arcing up in his left hand.

Topaz eyes watched from an embankment a dozen yards off. They belonged to a rangy, winter-shaggy wolf, and peered out of a ragged-edged umber mask which set off nicely the animal’s ash-gray pelt. The wolf continued its scrutiny, wary but unfearful. It was a male, and from its size, its stance and the condition of its coat, it was in the very prime of life.
The man met that calculating, warm-and-cold gaze, considering. There was still a bounty on wolves. He could use the money, most certainly . . .

They remained like that for some minutes, in mutual contemplation, as the high-country wind rippled the man’s neckerchief, the wolf’s neck-fur. The rider even went as far as to ease back the hammer of the Peacemaker. The faintest click sounded, and the wolf stirred almost imperceptibly.
No, the rider decided. It wasn’t in him to bring down this beast for a handful of blood-stained coin. From one predator to another, the message finally passed: Let life stand, for whatever life was worth.

No doubt it was worth a lot more to the wolf, the man decided, holstering his pistol. What little he had left hardly seemed to justify the expenditure of effort in getting to his feet every morning.

(Note: This will be the story of villain-turned-protagonist Sandoval (San) Cobra, who was the near mythic rival of Jake and Jason West in "Disciples of the Wind" and "Reapers of the Wind," both written by my brother Kirby and me.)