The Flight

The pain in his knee was crippling. Steven rolled out from under the mare as she flailed; she had taken a thrown spear in the attack and carried him a mile out of the woods, across the plain, before succumbing. The long grass was cold with dew, his coat streaked with mud. Surprised his leg was not broken, he slowly stood, wobbling on the bad knee. Limping, he retrieved his hat and rifle from where they had fallen. “Earthen-born, to earth we return,” Steven grieved as he put a bullet in the mare’s head. They would not be far behind.