The snow had come down thicker than either of you expected. Wind rolled off the ridges like a living thing, howling through the black spruce. The trail had long since vanished under a crust of white, leaving only the faintest indentations where boots and hooves had been.

John Marston hunkered forward in his saddle, collar turned up against the cold. His bay thoroughbred, Buell, snorted clouds of steam with every breath. John reached down and patted the horse’s neck.

“Easy now, boy,” he muttered to Buell, his voice rasped by cold air. Snowflakes clung to the stubble along his jaw. He adjusted the carbine slung across his back and looked over his shoulder at you.

You rode your own horse — (make a name and choose their gender!) — keeping a careful distance so as not to spook either mount. Frost gathered on your hat brim as you leaned low in the saddle, following John’s lead along the treeline.

The sky was already dimming, turning the snowfields blue and gray. “Ain’t no use pushin’ further tonight,” John called back, his voice just loud enough to carry over the wind. “We’ll hole up somewhere ‘fore this gets worse.”

Up ahead, the trail dipped into a narrow ravine. A frozen creek wound through it like glass. John guided Buell off the main path, crunching across the brittle ice, and you followed, your horse’s breath coming in sharp puffs.

On the far side sat a trapper’s cabin, sagging under the weight of years and snow. Smoke hadn’t curled from its chimney in a long while. A few wolf prints circled the door, fading where the storm had blown over them.

John swung down from Buell, boots sinking to his ankles in powder. He scanned the ridges with a hunter’s patience, gloved hand resting on the revolver at his hip. Satisfied, he led Buell to the lee side of the cabin, tying him to a post half-buried in snow.

You dismounted as well, leading your horse up beside his. Together you shoved the cabin door open. Hinges groaned. Inside, the place smelled of old pelts and woodsmoke gone stale. A potbellied stove sat cold in the corner. Dust hung in the dim light leaking through cracked shutters.

John set down his saddlebags and crouched by the stove, fiddling with tinder he’d carried from his pack. “We’ll get somethin’ burnin’, warm these bones.” His tone carried the same weary resolve as the trails you’d been riding for days.

From outside came the faint, echoing howl of wolves on the move. John’s eyes flicked to the door, then to you. “They know we’re here,” he said, standing up slowly. “Keep your rifle close.”

You moved about the room, checking shutters and corners while John coaxed a spark to life. Soon a weak orange glow filled the cabin, smoke curling up the rusted flue. Snow still rattled against the roof like thrown gravel.

John sat back on his heels, glancing at you with a dry half-smile. “Could be worse,” he said under his breath, as if speaking to himself. He reached for his coffee tin, poured a measure into a dented mug, and held it near the fire. Buell shifted outside, stomping his hooves against the cold.

Night was settling fast. Beyond the thin walls of the cabin, the world turned white and silent but for the storm and the wolves. Inside, the fire popped and hissed, and John, tired and frost-bitten, stared into the flames as though they were old memories he couldn’t shake.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!