Silhouette

For the first time in a month and a half he would sleep under a roof. The filthy, leaking canvas left much to be desired, but it would provide shelter enough against the snow. He worked steadily through the quickly fading dusk to anchor the posts at each of the four corners. The pole stretching across the top swung slowly back and forth with the beginnings of the gathering blizzard. A flap broke loose from its peg and whipped across the ground, tossing fallen snowflakes back into the air. He quickly moved to secure it. When it was once more tucked safely away into the frozen earth, he stood motionless and looked up at the angry sky.
Dark swirling clouds and large flakes that continued to fall faster and more heavily flew across the sky ahead of the furious storm. Nearby trees bent and moaned and dug their roots deeper and held on for dear life. The topmost branch of a tree down the path broke free with the sound of a pistol shot in the night and spun around endlessly; carried off amidst the whirling snow past the treeline and out of sight. The flimsy tent lifted with the wind, straining desperately against its bonds to follow. But he had done his work well. The lines would hold.
He stood for a few moments longer, weighing his options. He had been expecting this storm for some time, but it hurt nonetheless to stop now. Judging from the nearly tangible tension that rode on the air, he would not be able to move again until he had dug himself out of the snow late the next day. So it was, so it must be, and so he must accept it.
He bent down into the tent and laced up the flap.


The gunbelt dug grooves into his stomach and hips and his boots seemed to clench around his aching feet, but he couldn't bring himself to take them off. Years of experience told him this would be foolish and he knew better than to argue. He turned on his side and closed his eyes for a few moments before slowly rotating back to his other side. He couldn't seem to find sleep no matter how he lay. The wind screamed and the tent lifted and fluttered to and fro above him, but he had once slept through worse. Now he lay awake staring up at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the flakes splatter against the walls. He knew he should try to get some sleep, but the sound of the snow rushing across the canvas echoed in his head like the footsteps of dozens of tiny insects walking through his mind. Exhaustion began to set into his eyes, the pressure pooling just behind the nerves. Still the lids refused to close. He felt every muscle in his body begin to contract against the cold and fatigue. They screamed in agony while he continued to stare impassively into the dark.
It would begin again the next day. No matter how much sleep he got, he knew that tomorrow the sun would rise, and he with it to again resume the race. Those behind would not slow to let him rest. And he could not run for much longer.
The dark began to take the shape of familiar faces, and as he watched, he finally slipped slowly away from his mind and slept.

He couldn't believe that he hadn't heard him sooner. Her face faded into a dull, aching black that came from behind his eyes rather than from the night pressing around him and he came fully back into consciousness. The eye of the storm had begun to pass over half an hour ago and the silence was suffocating. Soft footsteps echoed clearly against the pain, growing closer until they stopped outside the flap. A curse floated to him as the other struggled with the laces that held it closed. He desperately fought the urge to laugh and buried his face against the blanket until it passed. Cold air buffeted him as the flap pulled back and a shadow darker than the night fell across him. He could almost taste the other's greed as he stepped over him. Metal slid smoothly against leather as a gun floated out and up into the dark. His head dropped into sight and the hammer seemed unusually loud in the silence. His eyes were still closed, feigning sleep, but he was sure the other was grinning as his finger closed around the trigger. His hand found the grip of his .45.
It didn't happen in slow motion as others had claimed. His hand whipped around faster than the smile could disappear from the other's face. The thunder of his death shattered the air, rolling in deep waves through the trees, reaching the ears of those still behind.
He slid his hand across his face, wiping the bits of soft gray matter from his forehead. He blinked through the blood and closely examined what was left of the face. He didn't know him. But he was just the same as the last.

The snow began to pile up against the tent, making it impossible to dispose of his guest's body until morning. The blood had either dried or frozen against his skin. The roof and walls of the tent held what the other's head once had. Every few moments the other's dreams and memories would land with a soft thud between his feet. The half-face continued to stare unbelievingly up at them as if he couldn't understand how they had gotten there. When dawn at last rose through the silhouette of the other's death on the walls, he rose, crossed above him, undid the flap, and began to dig.