“DON’T KILL ME, MOUNTAIN MAN… I’LL WARM YOUR BED!” – thuytien

The cannon opened into a dead end. “There’s no way out.” Bear hid her behind a rock, checked the ammunition. “Not if we make each one bleed.” The attackers burst in.
Bear fired, Clara shaking with the revolver. Then, a hiss, a distinct shout. Figures on the crags: Cheyenne warriors. They came down like mountain cats, arrows and rifles. Cain’s band was cut down.

When it was over, the snow was littered with weapons and wounded men. Cain, bleeding, was dragged before Clara. “This changes nothing. Thorn will hunt them down. The truth doesn’t matter.” “It does matter,” Clara said, “to those who died for it.” Bear stood beside her, unmoving.
Running Wolf, the Cheyenne chief, spoke: “Your fight is not over, but you are not alone.” The Cheyenne lifted them onto horses. Clara leaned against Bear, exhausted. “You saved us.” “We saved each other.” The mountains glittered in the sun.
The storm had passed. The danger, however, had not. But for the first time, Clara felt something stronger than fear: hope.
Because sometimes hell under the snow is the only path to truth. Because sometimes, to live, you have to beg on your knees… and then rise stronger than ever.