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Jeff Kurland didn't have a gun. Jeff Kurland didn't have a chance.
The rancher knew that even as he scanned the cabin for a weapon,
any weapon. He was trapped with a killer who had a pistol in his
hand and a bounty on his head. And outside, the pogonip swirled
and fell, an icy blanket of fog that settled like a shroud over
every living thing. Death would creep into the cabin with the
bone-chilling cold or slice through him with the speed of a bullet.
Either way, time was running out . . . for both of them.
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Down
the Pogonip Trail 
