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She could feel blood begin to pool beneath her, soaking her simple flannel shirt. Her shotgun lay just a few feet from her, and, remembering the men were still nearby, she tried to pull herself toward it. Every inch she moved was agony as the rough ground scraped past her bleeding torso. She could feel the smooth wood of the stock on her fingertips when it was pulled from her grasp.“No no no. You don’t need that anymore.” A gruff, deep voice came from above. She felt a boot roughly roll her onto her back, and found herself staring up at the two men. They wore dark clothes, and had bandanas hanging around their necks. She tried to grab her own revolver. She never was much of a quickdraw, but she could barely force her hand onto the grip of her pistol. “Don’t be stupid, girl.” The man who had shot her spat, grabbing her pistol from her hand as well. The men now stared down at her as tears ran down her cheeks. They seemed to focus on her chest, and Laura now noticed that at some point,. We scared each other with silly ghost stories over cups of fresh strong coffee then tried to sleep with the sound of heavy rain beating on the roof and sides of the tent. When we awoke next morning the rain had gone with a cloudy day, but the sun was trying to clear the clouds away and every where seemed fresh and sweet smelling. When we set up our fishing equipment and cast our bait out the fish were hungry and we began to fill the ice chest with fish which we,d clean later and store in a larger chest to take home for the freezer. We caught sizeable perch, a few walleyes and northern pike along with pesky bullheads most too small to bother with. They taste okay, but by the time the heads are removed there,s hardly any meat left. By lunch time the fish stopped biting, the sun had burnt the clouds away and the temperature had risen into the low eighties so we removed our shirts and stretched out on our camp cots dozing off as we tried to watch our floats for signs of a bite. “There,s.
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