The first thing that Ian felt was nothing.
The jump from the train window to the snow bank was only two feet, if that. But the snow was sugary, and as he fell into it, cobwebs of the powder clung to him. As he clambered his way out of the snow, desperate for a solid footing, he couldn’t tell apart the screaming in his mind from the wolf pack in the wind. By then, though, the cold had already short-circuited his brain and took away his memory. He swayed drunkenly, lost in a field where the snow grew tall like wheat. His mind was as white as the prairie and the prairie was as black as the skies. Ian was losing himself – it would not be long before he became as primordial as the world that raised him.
But then one word found its way through the blinding snow to him: hunt. There was still a villain that he had to end. He had to catch the rancher and make him confess – it was the only way that Ian could make all of this go away. Wildly, he glanced around, hoping to see Davis within his grasp. But all he could see was the storm around him, like a whip that was being uncoiled. Tide after tide of wind drove the snow like spikes that flattened out into plaster against his skin. He could feel the frost molding to his body and blowing out the fire in his veins. Already, he could feel his arms and legs growing tired, drained of their momentum as if it was only oil. He never realized how heavy death could feel until that moment. Ian wished like hell that he had a coat, a hat, a lantern, anything that could make his blood flow again.
As strong as the lights were shining from the train’s windows, they were only a stale glow in the storm. He wondered if this was what it was like to live in the ether, where it is both dark and bright. But there was no time for philosophy – he had to catch his man. And, as if he was thinking too loud, Ian saw a rippling shadow move in front of the dull light. It was barely a scrape of a shadow, but Ian had spent a lifetime breaking down the world around him: words into syllables, life into cells, diamonds into atoms, and motion into a series of photographs. He thought big by thinking small.
Confident, Ian charged into the rush of snow. The spray of flakes stung his eyes, so bad that Ian had to throw his arm up like a shield. The snow was deep and clumsy, and Ian had to step high to clear the snow with every stride. Already, the running was sapping him of what little strength he had left. But the adrenaline from the chase was sparking inside of his brain, blinding him as to how much energy he truly had left. The mystery was almost solved, the chase was almost over.
Ian huffed as he made his way to where the shadow stood. Just inches away now, Ian leapt and tackled the silhouette in the chest. But just as Ian jumped, the shadow fluttered into pieces. Ian landed hard in the soft snow, cursing himself for being fooled by the mirage. Even though no one saw him, Ian still felt the burning embarrassment. He was better than this.
But there was someone who saw him. As Ian pushed himself up, he felt a swift kick to the back of his leg that broke him back down. As surprised as he was, Ian turned on his back and threw his arms up, his instincts immediately snapping in. It was just in time, too, as he felt a plank slap against the flat of his left arm. Ian let out an unwilling cry – once again, he could feel something. He would just rather it be the taste of whiskey.
“You think you could stop me?” A voice yelled out, strained by the wind, as the plank cracked again across his arm. “I’ll do as I damn well please!”
The rotting board that Davis had ripped off the train car swept through the air as invisible as death. By now, though, Ian had found the pattern. This time, as the board connected with his left shoulder, he shot out with his right hand and grabbed ahold of it. Wrapping his left hand around the board as well, Ian twisted his body hard to the right. The board swung like the pendulum on a metronome, and a surprised Davis tripped and fell into the snow a few feet away.
As Ian stood up and stumbled to where Davis fell, he roared, “Hit me in the arm that I smoke with, why don’t you?” Ian lashed out with his foot, hoping that it would land in Davis’ ribcage. When Ian heard a startled yelp, he felt a dark satisfaction he had never felt before. He knew that Davis couldn’t hear him through the storm, so Ian was going to make sure that he could feel him. “You’re lucky you didn’t hit me in my right arm! That’s my drinking arm!”
Ian reached down to grab Davis by the collar. He wanted to share his pain with him, the pain of being an exile, the pain of losing everything he had and yet still finding more to lose, the pain of having to be someone else. But before Ian could do any of that, he felt the ground give beneath them. Both of the men yelled out as the snow crumbled and they tumbled down towards the valley
Ian lost what little senses he had left as the world spun around him, like watercolors dripping down a canvas. He struggled to find a solid grip, but he was rolling too fast and the snow was too soft, any holds evaporating between his fingers. He thought he could hear the screams of Davis somewhere ahead of him. Ian got bored of the vertigo quickly and decided to put a stop to it. As he tumbled, he squeezed both of his hands together as if in prayer and slammed them as hard as he could into the ground. As he skidded, the pile of snow quickly gathered between his arms, and after a few seconds, he braked to a stop.
Breathing heavily, Ian pressed his forehead against the snow, hugging the side of a ledge for the second time in his life. Below him, he could hear Davis’ cries shrinking.