Page 20 of Saddles

Ford

I can’t see a fucking thing even with a small flashlight, but Roscoe stays just in front of me, leading me towards the noise of the engine.

The door of the cabin has barely shut when I hear a loud crashing sound, and the rpm of the motor shoots up.

What the hell was that?

Snugging up my coat with my free hand, I keep my pistol drawn ahead of me. Who knows what kind of sneak attack attempt this could be.

Well shit, there’s part of a ski. Past that is a chunk of the cowling.

Did they crash?

When I find it, the snow machine is a mangled mess, the front end ripped apart in pieces.

Holy fuck, whoever it was, hit hard.

I manage to find the key and kill the high pitched scream.

Silence crashes over me, the thick snowfall suffocating every sound.

Roscoe whines, circling a depression in the deepening powder.

Is that the rider?

My gun at the ready, I move forward slowly until I can see the reflection of a helmet getting buried with the heavy flakes.

“Hey! Who are you?” I wait for any sign of movement or reply, but nothing happens.

Are they hurt? Should I care?

Maybe I should just put a bullet in them and walk away? Anyone who intentionally pushes cows to their death deserves an early grave.

“Hey!” I’ll try again.

They’re still.

Well, fuck.

I tap on the visor with my barrel, then raise it, shining my weak light in.

Big brown eyes flick open, then roll back and close.

Is one bruised? Is that from the crash?

“Who are you?” I ask again.

The tiny, feminine voice surprises me. “Help me.”

I certainly didn’t expect a woman.

Am I being tricked? A trap, maybe?

I guess the biggest question is, am I going to leave her out here to die?

Because it’s cold as shit, and my own fingers are going numb.

God damn it.

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