Crawling to the motorcycle, he retrieved his pistol and down sleeping bag. After unrolling the mummy-shaped bag, he slapped it across the wet, rocky surface, and then slipped inside. His ankle felt like someone had whacked it with a sledgehammer. He wouldn’t be jogging, or riding, anytime soon.
Marooned in the San Juans, Kannon closed his eyes for what figured to be a restless night. Beneath the low-hanging clouds, the winds quieted, but an alien sound disturbed the stillness. Kannon listened intently. Somewhere up slope, the bear chuffed.