These Nights Are Already Cold…
“We won’t last through the winter here” she muttered, hunkered down on the bed near the fire, draped in the military green wool blanket they had stowed away in a footlocker underneath the bed. The wind outside wailed on as it had for hours and the drafts sneaking in through the cracks in the walls seemed to seek her out and climb down into the blanket, past the four layers of old clothing she wore down to her skin where it stung and chilled her. Her long auburn hair lay draped over her shoulder as she shivered into the blanket, vainly seeking its warmth. It had grown considerably colder in the five weeks they had been here. The small pantry had been empty for two days. Their only sustenance was the small fish they could catch through a tiny hole in the ice covering the lake. They had managed only one or two in the last three days. Fish so small they seemed only to aggravate their hunger. In the spring there would be caribou and elk and they could eat like kings. Kings of the wilderness. Unfortunately, this time of year all the larger animals had gone south where there was still grass on which to graze.
The older man glanced over at her, turning his gaze away from the crack where the heavy drapes met the window pane. It was a very narrow line of sight, but he could not risk opening the curtains for fear that the light from their meager fire would betray their presence in the old cabin. Out near this lake, such a light would be seen for miles with not so much as a shrub to block it’s glaring beams.
“Either we’ll starve to death or we will freeze. You were a fool to bring us here.” she added. Her voice tinged with sadness and lacking the tone that would indicate a genuine anger. She knew why they were there. It was as much his fault as it was hers and, in reality, this hiding spot was not any worse than any of their other options. At least here he could see them coming far off. She had no desire to watch for them in the beginning, but now- at the end it seemed, she could not keep her mind from the thought of them. Surely they would have pity on her. Certainly someone would understand, or care. No, she was only fooling herself. There would be no pity. No remorse. They were outlaws,criminals. There could be no redemption, except perhaps between them and God- if he would still listen.
The older man returns his gaze to the window. His silver hair sparkles in the firelight. His knitted wool cap hides his bald spot on his crown. If his hair were darker he would look as he had in the old days: intense, brooding and reminiscent of a clean-cut Che Guevara or perhaps a young Vladimir Lenin (without the glasses). Even in his old age he had that revolutionary look about him. Something about him commanded respect and fear, or so it had at one time. His eyes once could pass judgment on any man with a fierceness and severity perhaps paralleled only by the flames of hell. His grey eyes had softened now. He spoke with a smoky, voice and at a slower pace than his younger days. Was he still the same man? Had his determination, his contempt for their status-quo diminished as he aged? Perhaps it is true that life becomes more dear as we reach the end of it. Had he given up his dreams for the sake of mere survival? She couldn’t tell. Despite the changes time had made to this man, she could read him no more easily than she could the day he first proposed this notion to her.
She was little more than a girl and a little less than a woman when they first met on her uncle’s veranda during a social gathering. He seemed to take a genuine interest in the girl; what she thought, what she did, her hopes, they all mattered to him. He was charming and well dressed and had the finest mustache of any man at the party. If things had stayed on the prescribed course, she would have been heiress to her father and uncle’s mining operations. Already she had been with her father to see the mines. She had no affection for them as he had though. She did not care for the dark cavernous recesses or the filthy, blackened creatures who labored there hallowing out the earth. Her hair was long then. It flowed in auburn torrents to her slim waist. She was a beauty to behold and she caught the eye of many a friend of her fathers and all the eyes of the mine workers, though theirs were concealed under hats with little lanterns on them so that she could not tell she was being watched. Time had weathered her in the years that passed. She gave up the life of the well-to-do and followed him on the road. She retained her beauty, but it had been muted by time and worn by care. She thought it was care for their cause. The cause that first had been his and later became her own. Truthfully, it was he whom she truly cared for and she on whom his cares were cast. For many years she had been his confidant and companion and not once did any word of displeasure pass her lips, regardless of the hardships.
He cleared his throat and she thought, for a moment, that she saw the reservoir of his eyelids holding back a flood. She understood. He loosed the strap of his pistol and turned off the safety. She wrapped the blanket tighter about her and let the tears flow down her cheek. He had never seen her this way and so he made a point not to look at her. This time they would be found. This time he would remember why they began in the first place and the six shots in his pistol would not be enough to save them from the fate they made for themselves.
The sound of machinery and people marching echoed softly on the freshly fallen snow. There was no moon to light the way or signal their presence. There were no clouds either. The night was cool and clear and the sound of the shots carried across miles.
