Lost Creek Hollow A Fistful of Dollars

The golden wolf reveals himself to the mountainous man. He can clearly see who exactly is in front of him now. His interest is moderately piqued. Though his drive to kill is almost stronger. He wants to chase the little wolf like he used to do when he lived on the farm. Shaking them until their bodies were limp and pools of blood were speared all over him, the grass and the body of the dead wolf. He knows that once they died, he did a good job. He made his humans proud and protected the fluffy white animals that they cherished so much.

But he has nothing to protect now. What’s the point? This little guy doesn’t stand a chance against him. So he hums in reply to acknowledge that he heard him. “Bishop.” He says is such a deep octave that it sounds thick with base. “Call me Bishop.” He repeats for clarity. 

“I kind of wanna kill you.” He says in that same deep voice. As if he’s speaking of the weather. “But there’s no point.” He says as if he’s convincing himself more than anyone.

Then his previously emotionless face shifts into something more contemplative and painful. He sighs. “Just don’t talk to me.” He hums and begins walking past him. 

The image of the wolves when he used to kill to protect livestock flash through his mind. Then of his more recent life — Luke. He misses playing with Luke. He was a wolf and he didn’t kill him. Maybe he could play with this one too. So he hesitates in his walk. Wanting to go back and speak with them. His head is starting to hurt from how hard he’s over thinking everything.