It lay on its side against a snow drift, resting its head on an outstretched human arm. An elk pelt draped around its human-like upper body. Brown horse-like hair cloaked its lower body-the same color as the elk pelt. Blood pooled under the upper human part of its body, staining the fresh snow.
Gaps of silence filled the air between the whistling sounds of breathing.
"Poor bugger. Thought you were somethin' else," Old Man Billy muttered.
A careful step toward the creature.
A nudge with his gun barrel.
A push against the thing with a heavily booted foot.
All that prompted deep groaning sounds from the man-horse, then a sound that at first seemed like a death rattle, emitted from the creature. Its eyes flickered to open to a squint at first before fully opening.
Unnerved, Billy stepped back into the crimson snow. The color was actually pinker than human blood and the horror sent an adrenaline surge though his heart. His snowshoes tangled with a stick, sending him tumbling to the ground and sprawled on his back. His muzzleloader lay several feet away, out of his reach. He still had his Winchester...
The creature struggled to rise while it eyed him with large, dark human eyes. These were intelligent eyes, even though obviously dulled from pain. It revealed no fear, only a faint curiosity.
As it struggled more, pink foam pumped out through the wound in the bare, but very human chest. The creature exhaled another labored breath before giving up and laying back against the snow. It closed its eyes again as the next shallow breath sounded more congested than the previous.
Billy took the opportunity to unlash his snowshoes, rise to his feet, reach for his muzzleloader, then backstroke through the snow, mushing the blood with the snow. Finally, getting distance between himself and the creature, he stood upright and leveled the Winchester at the suffering thing before him.
He couldn't pull the trigger.
He rubbed the whiskers on his chin, regretting having shot the beast in the first place. Was it human enough? Enough that the sheriff might consider this creature a human? Was this, then murder? No. It couldn't be. Its size was comparable to an elk and in that weather, how could he have known otherwise? Manslaughter? An accident. It was an accident at worst, but definitely not murder. That's what he told himself to allay the guilt.
Best thing to do is get the hell out of here.
He backed away from the mortally wounded man-horse and turned on his heel. He replaced his snowshoes, then left as fast as he could tread. He paused now and then only long enough to catch his breath, before weaving through thick brush and spindly trees, hoping the falling snow would hide his tracks in case someone came across the man-horse and decided it was murder.
Sweat ran in rivulets down his face and he paused to remove his goggles and wipe his eyes.
He froze.
An odd sound followed cracking limbs.
Something followed.
Each familiar four-beat rhythm of a galloping horse grew louder and louder as it neared. Its tempo restricted only by the varying depth of the snow.
In the distance, another one of them towered over the wounded with a stance of imposing regalia. It had to have been at least seventeen hands high, judging by the height of the trees nearby, although the snow made it hard to judge both distance and perspective.
