The last Ride of Hairlip Green

The Beckoning Storm

As the three of them raced toward the doctor's office, Belle couldn't help but notice how different the town felt this morning. The streets were bustling with life, a stark contrast to the uneasy quiet from the day before. Children dashed between carts, their laughter ringing in the air as they played in the dust. Mothers, their arms laden with parcels, chattered outside the general store, gossiping about the latest town news. Fathers, faces weathered and calloused, sat on benches outside the barber's shop, exchanging quiet words with the barber as they smoked their cigarettes, the scent of tobacco mingling with the crisp morning air.

The town had come alive, almost as if it had shaken off the weight of the previous day's tension. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the streets. But for Green, Belle, and Neil, there was no time to soak in the moment. They were moving faster now, Green almost running as his boots slapped against the dirt with urgency. Neil and Belle struggled to keep pace, their legs pumping, trying to close the distance, but Green was a step ahead.

Belle's gaze shifted as she noticed something else—the mountain that had seemed so far away at their camp now appeared much closer. The dark green of the trees was visible against the jagged peaks, but today, the mountain was shrouded in mist, the clouds hanging low and heavy, as though they were pressing down on the earth. The air felt colder than yesterday, a sharp, biting chill that made Belle's skin prickle, as though the mountain itself was sending an icy breath down upon them. It was an eerie feeling, like nature itself was holding its breath in anticipation of something—something they weren't quite prepared for.

She shook off the thought, pushing herself to keep up with Green, but the chill that ran through her was more than just the cold air. It was a sense of foreboding that settled deep in her bones. Something wasn't right.

Green burst through the door to the doctor's office, his heart pounding with worry. The scent of antiseptics mixed with the faint odor of whiskey filled the small room, a stark contrast to the lively air outside. The lighting was dim, the thick curtains drawn to keep the glare of the morning sun from disturbing the patient. As his eyes adjusted, Green took in the scene before him.

Lyin' was slouched in a wooden chair by the window, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, its faint smoke curling toward the ceiling. His hat was tipped low, shadowing his eyes, but his face was tense. Lyin' exhaled a long drag, his gaze fixed on Montana, who lay motionless on the examination table, covered by a thin, blood-stained sheet.

The doctor, a wiry man with rolled-up sleeves and dark circles under his eyes, stood over Montana, his hands moving carefully as he checked his patient's pulse. The doctor's face was grim, his eyes focused, yet resigned—as though he'd been wrestling with a difficult truth he hadn't wanted to voice. Montana's skin was pale, his breathing shallow, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and Montana's labored breaths. Green took a step forward, and Lyin' looked up, nodding to him in a silent acknowledgment that didn't need words. The tension in Lyin's expression spoke louder than any explanation.

Green's gaze lingered on Montana, who looked almost unrecognizable lying on the table. His broad chest, normally strong and full of life, rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one seeming like it took every ounce of his strength. His face, usually sun-bronzed and rugged, had turned pale and ashen, a shadow of the hardy cowboy Green had known for years. Dark circles had formed under his closed eyes, giving him a gaunt, haunted look, as if he'd aged decades in just a night.

Montana's strong arms, which had once wrangled cattle and drawn pistols with ease, now lay limp at his sides, bandaged and blood-stained. His fingers, calloused from a lifetime of hard work, twitched slightly as he struggled in his unconscious state. The arrow wound, cleaned but still raw, was visible under the hastily wrapped bandages, a brutal reminder of the fight that had brought him here.