The storm at last passed. The chittering of birds and the heat of the risen sun aroused McGill.
He came out of the groove he’d curled up into the night before, so narrow he twisted his body in an ungodly posture. The scarred skin of the south side of the mountain warding off danger for him.
The night before, Gilman’s henchmen lost track of him, their horses frightened by the cracking dome above them. It would take them at least two days before they find him, McGill surmised.
He yawned, then shivered. The melting snow burning off a little ways behind him.
To the left below, a thicket of woodland spread green and billowing.
To the right, a spire of smoke ascended warily into the blue raw sky. Under it, a housefarm stood stubborn to snow or fire, inviting. A clutch of determined buffaloes grazed heedlessly not a hundred yards out.
He felt hungry and wild with life.
If death was upon him, inevitable, then he’d take another woman’s soul first.
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I have a deep respect for microfiction, knowing I absolutely cannot do it myself. This was a breath of fresh air on this Monday. Very well written too!