Somewhere near Morgantown, West Virginia
December 13, 1915
Ian sat behind the
wheel of his Model T pickup, awakening from a brief sleep. A steady flow of blood ran from his nose, down
his forehead, and onto his bowler hat. Nervously, he observed his surroundings and
went over in his head what had happened prior to his rest. Earlier, while driving to his destination, a
black bear had stepped onto the road in front of him, causing the truck to veer
off course and turn on its roof. Naked
trees and snow surrounded the vehicle.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, reached for the door’s
handle, and twisted it. Before pushing
the door open, his hand froze at the sound of crunching snow. His heart raced as a tear of sweat developed
beside his ear. Nothing could be more
compromising than if he were found at that moment. He knew if the bodies in the truck’s bed were
discovered, his short life would be over.
“Hello?” a scruffy voice called from
outside. Ian silently waited. The door opened and a hand in a wool glove
grabbed hold of the young man’s shoulder and dragged him out onto the snow.
“You okay, Mister?” the man asked. Ian looked up at him. He was a bearded gentleman standing at more
than six feet wearing a black trapper hat and a double-breasted red flannel
coat. A double-barreled shotgun slung
over his left shoulder and a bandoleer wrapped around his abdomen. He gently slapped Ian on his chest. “That’s one hell of an accident.”
Ian sat up and leaned against the
side of his truck. He looked under the
bed and found the three bodies lying in the snow beside each other wrapped in
their respective blankets. If he could
get the mountain man to leave him alone, there would not be a problem. He checked his watch, then looked at his
rescuer. “Thank you, sir, for helping me,
but I think I can manage. Please, leave
me be to handle this situation myself.”
The noise of crunching snow
reemerged behind the mountain man and Ian noticed another person appear before
them. This gentleman was thinner with a
handlebar moustache too large for his face. He gripped a Krag bolt-action rifle with his
bare hands. The first mountain man
turned around and smiled. “The truck is
fucked, Don, but the driver seems to be okay. We should probably take ‘im to a hospital.” They both nodded to each other.
“That’s okay, I’ll manage.” Ian raised his hand in protest. “You two can go now, thank you.” Slowly, he got himself to his feet. His legs shook with weakness as he unbuttoned
his winter coat and loosened his solid black necktie.
“No, no,” the first mountain man
responded, shaking his head. You need
medical help. I can see your nose is
probably broken.” The man proceeded to
peer into the truck as if looking for something valuable. There was the leather satchel with Ian’s
payment for disposing the bodies, but the mountain man had not noticed. He then turned towards the bed. After getting on his knees, he pulled out one
of the wrapped figures and curiously peeled open the layers of sheets. Ian watched motionlessly as the mountain man
gasped at what was inside. “Holy Jesus! What the hell is that?” The big man stood up straight and took a step
back.
Ian remembered his Smith &
Wesson .38 special he had kept in a shoulder holster and reached for it, taking
aim at the mountain man’s skull. While
on the verge of squeezing the trigger a hard blow hit him on his right cheek
bone. A rush of pain ran through his
head as he collapsed onto the snow.
The other man turned his rifle over
so the barrel faced Ian’s direction. In
an instant, Ian lifted his sidearm at the stranger and fired first into his
forehead. The man’s head jerked upward,
a squirt of blood flinging from his wound, as his body slumped on its back,
making a loud popping sound. Ian turned
his weapon towards the first man, who had his shotgun aimed at his head, and
fired another round. The mountain man
dropped to his knees and fell forward.
A black crow flew over Ian and
landed on the rear tire of the Model T as he stood on his feet. He studied the animal for a moment before looking
down at the two dead men he had just murdered.
He contemplated what he had just done but figured he had no choice in
the matter. The bodies in the stolen
truck were nothing more than gambling degenerates who did not pay their debts. If his boss found out about the scuffle, he
might be the next victim.
The crow took off without warning as
Ian holstered his revolver. A foreboding
sensation ran through his body, causing him to slowly turn around and find to
his bewilderment the 400 lb black bear standing an arm’s distance away, staring
straight at his face. “Shit!” he said to
himself. The bear growled at Ian and
sniffed at his direction. On impulse,
Ian decided to turn around and sprint towards the nearest maple tree. He grabbed onto a branch, pulled himself up,
sat down, and lifted his legs. The bear
chased after him, leaned against the trunk of the tree and clawed away at the
bark. He growled while keeping his eyes
on the young man. Ian took note of the
mountain man’s rifle, figuring it would be enough to take down the bear. His own revolver would not. He glanced at the rifle and back at the angry
bear below.
Nelson is from upstate Michigan who enjoys writing on his spare time. He works as an accountant and serves in the United State Marine Corps on the reserves. Most of his stories revolve around noir, crime and war fiction.