The Killing Fields

An Old Friend

            The fire and the squeak of the rocking chair were the only things that broke up the howling winds that tore through the night air like terrible screams and howls. The feel of hot coffee through gloved hands is like no other. Hot coffee with a hint of whiskey was the only way to cure a bad case of cabin fever. My eyes watched the fire as it danced with a beautiful, low roar to it. They watched as the fire licked my dinner, a fresh shot rabbit from the morning's plentiful hunt. My mind wandered around the cabin wondering if there was enough wood stacked in the corner, or if there was enough propane to keep the lantern lit until winter passed and the snow let up enough for my dogs to get me to town. Food wasn't a problem and neither was water, given there was enough flint and matches to keep lighting fires to melt the snow. Dog food was stockpiled in the shed where they slept. And that wind, it bit right through the walls I made myself and caught my mind. I was lost in their web of noise seemingly all around.
              After awhile my eyes and mind drifted to the weatherby 300 Winchester magnum caliber rifle that hung above the beaten wooden door. The same door that saved my life countless times from starved wolf packs looking for an easy meal. That rifle never stayed home when I left. That lesson was learned fourteen years ago when I resorted to a Bowie knife to kill a female wolf that was a little pissed at me for touching one of her cubs, which I'll admit wasn't the smartest idea but he was damn cute. The fact is I walked away with two cracked ribs, one broken, and a half blind left eye. I'm one lucky bastard to be able to say I walked away at all. That story always lends me a free drink at the local bar.
               A stout, sharp bark cut through the night. My rocking chair stopped squeaking as I froze. I knew that bark... Knew it anywhere. That was Wiley, my lead sled dog. He never barks unless something is up. I leapt out of the chair, put on my coat, hat, and goggles, and slipped on my pack boots. I grabbed my rifle and loaded a bullet in the chamber. I grabbed the knob on the door and yanked it open. I ran down the porch steps and looked toward the shed. I squinted to see through the blinding flurry of snow. There was something at the front door of the shed digging and clawing to get under it. It was him! It was ole Three Legs.