Isaiah Webber

Isaiah Webber took his share, adjusted the saddle, and turned down a trail that only the two of them would have recognized as a trail at all.

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The cabin Isaiah rode toward was not a secret, but it was forgotten. A rough-built trapping cabin tucked far from the main routes, known only to men who had reason to be off the map. Isaiah and Ebenezer had both stayed there years earlier, when work was scarce and questions were better left unanswered. They knew the creak of its floorboards, the way the door stuck in damp weather, the view from the desert pass just before the roof came into sight.

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Isaiah knew exactly how far it was.

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He nearly made it.

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The grass near the cabin grew high and thick where the ground stayed cool. Isaiah felt the strike before he heard the sound, sharp and sudden at his lower leg. He looked down just in time to see the rattlesnake recoil. One bite. Clean. Deep. His eyes set on his hideout...he had stepped directly on the rattler.

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He killed it with a single pistol shot, tied off the wound with shaking hands, and forced himself forward. The cabin door was only yards away, but the distance stretched longer with every step. By the time he reached it, his breath came hard and uneven.

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Inside, he dropped into a familiar, well-worn chair.

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Isaiah Webber knew what the bite meant.

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He dragged himself to the table, pulled paper close, and dipped the pen. His hand trembled as he began to write.