The Smugglers

In the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, where the air is lean and icy, the five dismounted for the night. They were flinty and wiry men, beaten and tempered on that great anvil called 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. Eduardo dropped and rummaged through his saddle bags. Amos spat at the ground and examined the dark mountain crags towering behind their camp. Luke hacked down a young willow with his knife. Bill finished with the horses and walked back, gnawing on a piece of stale bread.

A chipmunk ran from a stand of spruce trees and stopped in front of Bill. He stared down at it, black brows contracting. The rodent rose up on its haunches and peered up at the large man. Bill kneeled down. He broke off a small chunk of bread and held it out. The critter darted up, took the morsel, and scrambled up onto 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!” howled Cooper, throwing up disgust from deep inside of himself.

Standing in the middle of the camp, surrounded by 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?” growled Bill softly at Amos. 

Each man returned to his 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. And from the deep night, the keening of wolves was heard.