The High Cliffs of Russia

Dutch moved the bottle of Bacardi back to his lips, runnels of tears falling from his cheeks. I pried the half-empty bottle out of his clenched hand. I propped it back into a cleft between two nearby rocks.

“Stop blubbering and get back out there,” I pointed toward the direction he had crawled in from. “Go on, we’ve got to have some warmth no matter what you’ve done, or might have done.” Dutch looked at me in shock, wiped his cheeks and got back to his hands and knees. He gave a quick glance over to Don before disappearing into the bracken.

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