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Silas didn't strike. He simply sat across the fire, took a piece of meat with a trembling hand, and stared. The silence of the woods was louder than any scream. Silas had survived the mountain; now, Miller had to survive the guilt.
His fingernails tore as he dragged his body over frozen mud and jagged stone. He ate handfuls of snow to quiet his thirst and scavenged the remains of a wolf’s kill for a few scraps of raw, frozen meat. Every inch was an agony that screamed for him to stop, to let the winter sleep take him. Silas didn't strike
The air in the Missouri River Valley didn’t just feel cold; it felt like a physical weight, pressing the breath out of Silas’s lungs. He was a trapper, a man who lived by the skin of his teeth and the sharpness of his knife. But today, the wilderness had decided to take its toll. Silas had survived the mountain; now, Miller had
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