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 have a gun, but he had the shadows. He dragged his broken body into the light of the fire, not as a beggar, but as a judgment. When Miller turned and saw the mud-caked, blood-stained specter emerging from the dark, he didn't reach for his pistol. He fell to his knees, convinced the devil had finally come to collect.

One evening, huddled beneath the roots of a fallen cedar, he saw the glow of a distant campfire. The smell of roasting meat drifted on the wind—fatty, rich, and mocking. He recognized the silhouette of the man standing by the flame. It was Miller, the one who had left him to rot.