As the wagon climbed higher, the rain turned to snow. There was little wind and the temperature didn’t drop much below thirty, so there was no danger of exposure or blocked roads. The day ended early, however, the soft gray light dimming as though a giant lamp was turned down.Cuno parked beside the south fork of Roaring Creek, just upriver from an old Ute burial scaffold from which old buckskins and beaded blankets hung like tattered ribbons, revealing what the hawks and eagles had left of the Indians’ bleached bones.Clad in a long duck coat and ancient Confederate cavalry hat, a red muffler wrapped around his scrawny neck, Serenity gathered wood for a fire while Cuno picketed the mules in the high bluestem by the creek. Cuno had removed his camping gear from the wagon box, along with the fresh Arbuckles, when a shadow flicked through the trees on the other side of the trail. He stopped, turned his head that way, breathing slowly through his mouth to listen.Above the sound of the sifting snow and Serenity’s wheezing and scuffling, weeds cracked softly, the falling snow somehow softening and clarifying even the slightest sounds.
What do You think about .45-Caliber Deathtrap (2007)?
