Honor Road by Jason Ross (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

himself from the bag, and restarted the fire. He weighed the cost against the benefit. Even at its warmest, the sleeping bag burrito didn’t stop the relentless cold from gnawing at his feet and ears. If he unwrapped it to restart the fire, he’d have to rebuild body heat all over again.

He hadn’t heard anything on the silent snowfields around him. The threat of marauders, paramount minutes before, now drew back into the dead of night.

The night was crystal clear, which explained why the cold seemed so bitterly disposed to killing him—there were no clouds to hold in yesterday’s warmth. When morning finally arrived, so would the sun, and it’d come blazing out of the east on this downslope of the mountain range. His clothes would need to be pulled from under the pine boughs. If the morning came strong, they could be arrayed in the saplings and snowberry to sun themselves in the sparkling, hopeful light of day. He decided to take the entire next day to dry his things—if he survived the excruciating night without frostbite.

He couldn’t tell if he would lose his toes or not. He attempted, a couple times throughout the night, to burrow into his bag with his head lamp and look at his feet. They didn’t look any different than usual, which belied the torment of the freezing bones. If they hurt that bad, he reasoned, they might not be dead yet.

As dawn’s first light colored the horizon, Sage drifted in and out of a stupor.

He flashed awake.

Had he heard something crack?

He stared, wide-eyed, into the underside of the pine hanging over his ice burrito. He dared not move a muscle.

He listened, then heard the airy crumple of snow. Then a woof—the snow compacting under a footstep. Then nothing.

A whisper.

He pictured them. Men, following his snowshoe prints; stopping when they saw flashes of color through the pine trees—his clothes drying.

Another woof. Then another. They were picking up speed. Moving in for the kill.

Sage sat up slowly. He could hear the footfalls, clearly now. He couldn’t see them. The ambushers were on the other side of a screen of trees and they were closing in on his cold campfire. He wriggled out of his sleeping bag and quietly breach-checked his 30-30. Brass glistened.

Bare-footed and half-naked, he rolled out of the sleep burrito and stepped into the holes in the snow left by his boots the night before. His dick and balls dangled free, and the cold was almost unbearable, but his blood was up and he couldn’t afford to worry about exposure.

The men had passed his bivouac under the little pine, and followed his trail right to where he’d left his clothes drying—along with every bit of food and gear he had left. He cursed himself for not keeping the pack with him.

Why leave it fifty yards away? If he lost the pack, he might as well shoot himself.

Hopefully, they would double back on their own trail. He didn’t know how many men—two to four, he guessed—but if they cut new track and continued on from his camp with all his gear, he was done-for.

People didn’t usually do that, though. People usually went the easiest route, which would be back the way they’d come.

He reached the trail and crawled on his knees behind a snow-basted clump of wild rose.

He could hear them mumbling over a rise in the snow. He pictured them gathering up his stuff. Their whispered voices jumped up an octave. They were probably excited about the freeze-dried food. The voices grew louder as they approached. As predicted, they’d doubled back on their own trail; his own snowshoe trail from the night before. He’d get the jump on them. He might have no choice but to kill them.

No. He told himself. There would be no time to think it through. If he waited to decide until the moment presented itself, then it’d be too late. The other guy might decide first.

If they have a weapon, they die, he decided.

The voices echoed louder now. Bolder. They were returning, confidently, on their back-trail. Men were brazen on ground they knew.

Behind the wild rose, Sage hid. It was trail they’d covered just minutes before. It wasn’t a threat anyone would expect.

A head appeared over the rise in the trail. Then another, walking single-file to take advantage of the packed snow. A third head wobbled into view over the drift. Three men, whispering loudly.

“Maybe he fell in the crick,” one of them said. “And froze to death.”

Not far from the truth, Sage thought.

His hands shook like palsy, a combination of galloping nerves and killing cold. The sun still hadn’t shown its face. The morning hung, cold and muted, like a bear still groggy in April.

“Naw. Those clothes were set out to dry,” the first guy—the smarter guy—corrected.

All three were in the clear, now, thirty yards from Sage’s ambush.

Any weapons, I shoot, he reminded himself.

He stood up from behind the wild rose.

“Show me your hands or you die.” Sage’s dad had taught him defensive shooting. His dad taught him: watch the hands. Nothing else matters.

Piles of gear thumped to the snow. The first guy dumped his arm-load and raised his empty hands. The second guy did the same, but his right hand came out from under the falling gear with a black pistol. Sage couldn’t see the third guy’s hands, because he was behind the other two.

BOOM! The 30-30 thundered.

“Oh shit,” Sage swore. He hadn’t meant to pull the trigger.

Or had he?

The first man dropped to the ground and rolled into a ball. The second fell sideways and the third fell over backwards.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” the first man screamed. “We’re sorry. Don’t shoot me.”

Sage had racked the lever on the 30-30 reflexively. He almost racked it again but stopped himself.

“Let me see your hands! All of you,” Sage bellowed. His voice cracked.

The first man had his hands up and his head down, still half-rolled into a ball. The second guy was on his side, not