Deadwood Bound-Chapter 7

Deadwood Duology

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December 9, 1899

I’m grateful the bastards left me with my gloves on, my double grip secured around the tongue of my wagon as I pulled the books one frozen step at a time.

Snow began to fall a few hours ago, with wind and hail adding to my already pleasant day soon thereafter.

Being pelted by ice is almost as annoying as the bitter cold itself, but worse are my uncertain steps. Already had a couple spills, the first doing a number on my knee that I'm bound to feel for days to come.

But I reckon half my trembling comes from my fury within, giving me the strength to carry on.

Come late afternoon, the bad weather had tapered off enough to where I wasn't in such misery, but the stinging wind still had my head lowered so the brim of my hat could shelter my eyes.

Such was the case, I didn't see the indian standing before me until my eyes fell upon his moccasins, stopping in my frozen tracks and looking up to find he was as still as a tobacco shop statue, the arrowhead of his full draw mere inches from my throat.