just a taste....
The werewolf roared, raising on its haunches, semi-human claws scrabbling at its side, and Trace let swing with the staff of firewood in both hands, a solid clout across the thing’s head. Its howl ended in a yelp and the beast fell like a toppled tree.
“Sum. . . sumbitch,” Boz gasped, half-winded by the crush. He sat up, and Trace took him under the arms and pulled him from under the thing. The beast rolled away limp, its muzzle open and lolling in the gravel. It was breathing fast, with a raspy, growling sound. “Bastard’s snoring,” Boz said in amazement.
“Yeah,” Trace said, and laughed. “You okay?”
“Just a scratch, here.” Boz’s shirt sleeve was dark with blood where the thing had clawed him.
“Better sear that with whiskey,” Trace said.
“Inside and out,” Boz agreed. He went to fetch the bottle from the saddlepack while Trace wound rope around the werewolf’s ankles. Boz helped him with the hog-tying, and they both had a drink, in celebration.
“That ought to make the witch happy,” Trace said.