Dusk is rapidly approaching. The hard, cold, jagged rocks dig into your elbow and stomach as you edge forwards to get a better view at the sight below. You look onto a ramshackle hut, a small outbuilding next to it. It’s the only lead you have for David Bellman, the missing guy your car hit, way back in Oregon. You all agreed that there was something seriously weird going on. You caught a glimpse of something white, furry, just before the car hit. But the corpse was a man. In hospital clothes. You tracked him backwards to a hospital in Washington, and then to a national forest, where a couple was found murdered. Only, the the man wasn’t the husband. Your John Doe was the husband. David Bellman. Who is this corpse, and what happened to Bellman? You ID’d the guys from a tattoo. Jules Proudfellow. White Injun. The only lead? The tattoo itself, a mountain shaped like an Injun’s head in the Badlands: The Badlands Guardian. And now this search has led you here, to this dump, home of an old Injun guy called Joe Two Tipis. Proudfellow was here. You not only feel it, you have proof. The guy at the bicycle repair shop confirmed it. The Injun knows more than he let on.
You glance over your shoulder, where the others stand by the truck, fading from your eyes with the dying of the light. You suddenly feel your phone press against your hip, and have to repress the urge to take it out and check for messages again.
Suddenly, the strange combat vet next to you grunts and changes his position, and you look back down over the hill. Movement. The door to the main house slams open, and that Injun guy, Joe Two Tipis, emerges. Your thoughts start to form into the accusation, about how Two Tipis knew about Jules Proudfellow all along, but they disperse like mist in the sun at the sight that you see.
In his right hand he holds a bloodied knife, swinging with his every step. His left hand clutches something bloody, clearly with some weight to it. What, it is hard to say. The light is almost gone. He saunters towards the shack, and opens it clumsily, using his elbows. A sickly light spills out, and he disappears inside, the door slamming shut by its own volition.