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Rescued By The Mountain Men
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Night falls early in the Rugged Mountains . . .
Tom Prescott was worried. It was early autumn and the temperature would drop below freezing before morning. He had warm clothes—boots, jeans, flannel shirt, sweater, insulated coat, gloves, and a stocking cap—but no food, no shelter, and no equipment, except for a half-empty canteen and a long-bladed hunting knife. He hadn't even brought matches.
And he was lost. It was stupid and he should have known better. If he could really kick himself, his butt would be bruised blue. He'd had a major fight with his girlfriend and had taken a few days off to let things cool down.
Coming to the mountains always made him feel better. This time, he'd needed that more than ever before. He'd hiked for a couple of hours along a new trail, stopped to eat the picnic lunch he'd brought, and then headed back toward his jeep. He hadn't planned to spend the night. Of course, he hadn't planned on dropping his GPS into a swiftly running stream and having it swept away, either.
Tom was trying to remember how to build a pine bough shelter when he smelled the smoke. It wasn't heavy like a forest fire, just a light odor on the breeze. It had to be a camp fire, somewhere upwind and close.
He followed his nose along a twisting and poorly-defined trail. It was full dark when he stepped into a wide clearing, lit by a small cheerful fire in its center.
"Who's there?" a young-sounding male voice called from the darkness.
"I'm just a hiker." Tom hoped he hadn't walked into a pot grower's camp. "I'm lost."
The man sitting by the fire was in his late 20s—a few years older than Tom—tall and slender with collar-length black hair and a short black beard. "Come sit down," he said.
Tom sat cross-legged at the edge of the stone circle surrounding the fire. Rich cooking smells rose from a pot sitting at the edge of the flames, reminding Tom how hungry he was.
He held his hands out toward the fire. "That feels good."
"I bet." The other man extended his hand. "Hi. I'm Clint Hardwick."
Tom took Clint's hand and shook it. "Tom Prescott. I'm really glad to meet you."
"This a bad night to be lost in the mountains," Clint said. "You must be hungry." He picked up a battered mess kit and handed it to Tom. "Go ahead and eat."
Tom dug in. It was delicious—tender meat seasoned with some kind of wild spices.
The fire flared, showing hiking gear and a small tent. "Do you live out here?" Tom mumbled through a mouthful of stew.
"Sometimes. I'm an EPA biologist and I do a lot of field work."
"Sounds interesting. But sort of lonely."
Clint shrugged. "It's not too bad. I've got the world's greatest office." He paused. "I do get horny sometimes."
"Women," Tom said. "Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em."
"Well . . . Women. Yeah." Cliff took a bottle of Jack Daniel's out of his backpack and handed it to Tom. "Here. You'll need this. It's gonna get fucking cold tonight. Probably a little snow before morning."
Tom took a long drink. It filled him with a pleasant warmth. "Pretty smooth." He passed the bottle to Clint.
"Life's too short to drink cheap whisky." Clint's knee brushed Tom's. "Or to miss opportunities."
