Hutch didn’t have time for tears as in the distance he heard the fast pace of an oncoming runner. Hutch reacted by crawling like a wild animal into a nearby drainage ditch at the far end of the dirt piles.
He burrowed beneath the dried clusters of sage brush and freezing snow, the thorns and goat-heads driving themselves into his hands and knees. In spite of the pain, Hutch moved slowly to the opposite end of the berm and near where Lulu Belle lay.
By then the sound of the running feet had dribbled away to a near-noiseless creep. Then came the unmistakable double-click of a bullet entering the chamber of a rifle.
Hutch froze in place.
It was the sound of crunching bits of sage and minor gravel that gave the shooters’ position away. Taking a deep breath and knowing it could be his last, Hutch stood.
He was two feet lower than the man with the rifle. Hutch already had his arm, revolver in hand, outstretched before the man could respond.
In rapid succession, Hutch squeezed the trigger of the forty-four; each round striking its mark with a bone breaking thud. Then it was over.
Dropping his now empty gun, Hutch drew his knife intent on finishing the job had the six well placed rounds hadn’t done what they were designed for. As Hutch scrambled over the berm, it became immediately apparent that he need-not employ his blade since the body of the man lay unmoving and unbreathing.
Turning back, Hutch retrieved his weapon, reloading as he walked back to where Lulu Belle lay. By then the wound in his side from a bullet solely meant for him, but mostly absorbed by Lulu Belle’s huge bull mastiff body, was beginning to ache.
Despite this, Hutch sat next to Lulu Belle and grieved the death of his best friend.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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