fence line

by underswansea


Rags considered his options. He could head north to the canyon or follow the fence line to the lake. If it was him running he would go to the canyon. It was a dead end, but he would figure something out when the water met his ears. But this was Cash. He would go to the lake. Lot’s of good memories for him there. Also more options.

It wasn’t hard to figure, he was following tracks in fresh snow and it was his brother.

The Ford bucked and spun in the snow. It was the shitty tires. Cash had them too. The old man taught them to drive on bald tires. He used to say, they’d take you there and back if you’re careful. It sure as hell made you evaluate the roads. They used to spin their way, back and forth, past four wheel drives stuck tight in mud holes. It was all about momentum they learned.

Rags knew Cash would be drunk. Willing to take more chances. But the roads weren’t bad. A week of cold temperatures had hardened them up before the snow fell. The road wasn’t greasy, just slick.

There was no gaining on him. He would find him where he stopped.

The fire was high. Rags saw it before he crested the fence line. It made him laugh. Cash was never one to run the truck to stay warm. He always carried firewood in the bed.

Stay hidden be damned.

Cash knew it was Rags by the way the truck was spinning. He wasn’t sorry to see him.

Rags considered running him over, but thought better.

He could use a drink and knew Cash would have something more than beer.