The Kalispell Run

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The three men were huddled together several feet from the roaring fire, conversing in hushed tones, idly watching the blonde woman prepare their evening meal: rabbit stew. All three wore a tunic and cloak made from bearskin, stitched together using deer sinew. All of the men were filthy, their long hair and beards matted with sweat and grime, their bodies reeking from neglect and a devoted aversion to water and bathing. The tallest of the grubby trio was armed with a Glenfield Model 15 bolt-action rifle, snugly cradled in his brawny arms. The oldest carried an axe, and the youngest a crude spear consisting of a lengthy straight branch with the tip sharpened and hardened in the smoldering ashes of a fire.

“Can’t figure it out,” the youngest commented to his companions.

“Where could they all be?”

The tallest shook his head. “We’ve looked and looked. If they don’t show up in a week, we’ll go south.”

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