winter

The snow has been falling fast, thick, heavy for nearly two hours when the figure bleeds into sight, a spot of ink on the empty page.

Samuel watches from behind a counter draped in furs and blankets, a variety of kettles and lanterns and knives spread beside him. His hand shadows over one knife — smooth handled, sharp enough to split hairs — until the door pushes open. The sudden gust is cutting, snowflakes fluttering to the floor beside the man’s boots.

Samuel considers everyone who comes by this trading post a stranger. There is no time or place for friendships this far west. Even men he sees frequently are all but unknown to him. He prefers it that way.

But there is a twinge in the air around this man, something that sets Samuel’s teeth on edge. Stranger than strangers, Samuel thinks.

“Caught in the storm?” he asks, watching the man stomp his boots, snow settling on the floor.

The question has an obvious answer, but the man pauses, keeping his head bowed. “Thought I could beat it,” he says as he tugs his gloves off.

The wind howls at the thin windows rattling in their frames. Samuel’s gaze does not move from the man as he pulls the edge of the scarf down under his chin, revealing heavy lines of cheeks and jaw, stubble dotting his face. The eyes, though. Samuel has seen eyes like that before. A determination in them that makes him regret not picking up the knife already. He wills his fingers not to twitch toward it.

“Mind if I…?”

The man gestures at the fireplace, and Samuel nods. As the man turns toward the flames, hands outstretched, Samuel takes the knife and slips it into his pocket, keeping his fingers tight around the handle.

“Bitter cold,” Samuel says, and the man turns just enough to nod. “Where were you headed?”

“West.”

Despite the cold, Samuel’s fingers are slick with sweat and slip along the handle. He hopes the movement is small enough that the man won’t notice.

“Why’d you come out here?” the man asks.

Samuel shrugs. “Same as anyone, I guess. Adventure. Gold. Freedom.”

The man turns and Samuel’s grip tightens. His heartbeat is drowned out by the rattling glass.

“How long you been at this post?” the man asks.

“Too long,” Samuel says.

The fire crackles. If it was spring, Samuel thinks, it’d be different. If it was spring, someone could hear yelling. Nobody saves you in the winter.

“In my experience,” the man says, holding Samuel’s gaze, “men out this far are either running toward or running away. Which are you?”

“Told you,” Samuel says. “I came here looking for something. Got tired of where I was.”

“Where was that?”

“Boston.”

He’s a bad liar, always has been, so the truth feels safer. And Boston — Boston was a lifetime ago.

“Did you find it? Whatever it was you came out here for?” the man asks.

Samuel shakes his head.

They’re quiet, but it’s not peaceful. It makes Samuel think of hunting. The way the prey knows. The way the hunter breathes. Waiting. Knowing.

“Did you?” Samuel asks.

The man looks down at his hands as the fingers twist around the gloves. “Might have.”

There is a single rough edge on the knife handle, the beginnings of a splinter working into Samuel’s forefinger.

“So what is it?” Samuel manages, throat dry. “The thing you’re looking for.”

Another gust of wind, so hard this time that snowflakes slip through the space between door and frame, melt in the air and drip onto the floor. Another log on the fire cracks under the heat.

“I think you know,” the man says.

The knife has already left Samuel’s hand by the time the man pulls out his gun, and he howls as the blade settles deep in the flesh of his hand. The pistol drops to the floor and Samuel snatches another knife from the counter.

A log shifts on the fire, sends a scattering of embers along the stone hearth. Blood drips in a halfhearted echo as the man cradles his hand. Samuel watches him, knees bent, fingers tight.

“Clever boy,” the man says, looks up.

Samuel understands. Knows the way a beast turns deadlier when its paw is caught in a trap. If he intends to make it out of this alive, he’ll only have one shot.

“Did you know how close I was?” the man asks. “To finding you? That why you greet me with a knife? Or are you always this courteous?”

Blood drips again, falls onto the man’s boot and slides off to the floor. Samuel’s grip tightens.

“They know who you are? What you are?”

Samuel lets him draw closer, forces himself to take several deep, slow breaths.

“You can run,” the man says, “but you can’t ever wash that blood from your hands.”

He groans from the depth of his chest as he wrenches the knife from his hand, gasping as the blood wells and flows faster, redder, heavier.

“You can’t ever wash that blood off,” he repeats, and lunges.

Samuel sidesteps, ducks, spins around a table of pots and canteens. The wind howls again as the man steadies himself against the counter, bloody hand dragging over the blankets. His breathing is unevenly weighted, and Samuel wonders if the shock is setting in. He just needs to outrun, outlast…

The man charges forward again, Samuel swinging wide around the table. As the man stumbles forward, Samuel catches up.

The knife slides home, deep and even and dark. There’s hardly a sound from the man as he drops to the floor, eyes already glassy. Samuel doesn’t wait, crouches beside him, flicks the coat open, plucks the star from the bloody shirt. He turns it over in his fingers, traces the engraving, slips it into his pocket.

The wind’s barely a whisper against the windows now. The fire throws shadows along the walls.

Nobody saves you in the winter.