MicroHorror

Gene awoke on his horse Samson to find that Sammy had died in the middle of the night, but kept walking. The regular plumes of steam from his bridled head had disappeared. Sitting on him was like sitting on a saddled piece of granite. Gene had woken because his legs were cold, hugging an unexpanding ribcage. An inch-high pile of snow had accumulated on his ears, which for the first time in Gene’s memory weren’t moving anymore. Gene shook his hat free of snow, clapped his gloves, and pulled the reins to stop the horse. Sammy kept plodding his slow defeated pace. Gene kicked his spurs into Sammy’s side, yanked the reins harder, leaned over and pulled his snow-encrusted tail. No response. Sammy’s hooves kept plunging into that hard-crusted icy snow, the sort that would rip a man’s shins in a dozen steps. Gene couldn’t dismount in this weather. It would be death for sure if he stayed still, and he couldn’t keep pace. The only choice was the keep riding Samson. Maybe they’d run into another cowman, and Gene could switch mounts. The next two hours passed like days, of weeks, bitter winds slicing his remaining warmth from his arms. “Hey!” Gene cried to the man he saw astride another horse in the far distance, and waved his hat. The man waved back, stiffly. As they got closer. Gene saw the man’s arm was broken, and his neck was twisted sideways, and his horse was walking on three fractured legs. Gene kept his mount, and kept his hands up to his mouth for warmth. But they never got any warmer.