The Smugglers

In the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, where the air is lean and icy, the three men dismounted for the night. They were flinty and wiry, tempered against that great anvil of the West, stiff and numb to the elements that bore down and against and through. 

Cooper leaned back on a heavy boulder to mend his Winchester, striking it with his hand. Amos spat at the ground and examined the dark mountain crags towering behind their camp. Bill finished with the horses and walked back, gnawing on a piece of stale bread.

A skinny chipmunk ran up and stopped, six feet away from Bill. He stared down at it, black brows contracting. The rodent rose up on its haunches and peered up at the large man. 

Bill knelt down. He broke off a small chunk of bread and held it out. 

The creature did not move, sharp eyes sweeping between the gift and the ominous face behind it. Bill started to pull his hand back.

The chipmunk scampered forward and reached up. He held onto the bread, like Bill wasn’t letting go. But the piece gave and the critter scrambled off with it to a boulder ten feet away.

Bill jumped up wide-eyed.

“His fingers grabbed my hand! Felt just like tiny human fingers!”

The other men turned to look at him. 

“Ooh well isn’t that lovely!” Cooper howled. The disgust came from somewhere deep inside of him.

Standing in the middle of the camp, facing the other men, Bill suddenly became aware of the nearby cliffs. Their cragged faces gloomed down at the group. No sound eased the frozen air, not even a breeze.

“Where’s supper?” Bill growled at Amos. 

Each man returned to his assigned task. They hurried and worked while daylight faded rapidly, like a lamp running out of kerosene. In the quick dark, the cold moon loomed up and the icy air bit. Then, from the deep night, the keening of wolves was heard.