I was with two other guys on a wide dirt trail, almost like a 4WD road. One of the guys I work with. I don't remember the other. A bedraggled wolf started following us. He was missing patches of gray fur, looked scrawny and hungry. He was gaunt by ferocious-looking. I took out my gun and pointed it at him as he approached us. As if he knew what a gun was and was threatened by it. But I didn't know what to do. The wolf kept coming. Kurt took out his gun, an old six-shooter pistol, and was trying to load it. "I'll take care of it," he was saying. But the gun jammed; he couldn't get it to work. He banged it against his palm.
The wolf snarled and came closer. It lunged at me and I shot it, shot it right in the heart. Dark blood came oozing out immediately, and the bullet slowed the wolf down so I dodged to the right. The wolf became desperate and continued after me. I avoided it and ran to the edge of a hill that sloped downward. We danced, back and forth, he trailing blood and I breathing heavily, trying to keep my distance. We stumbled at the little cliff's edge, and I stepped down on its slope to get away. I looked down at the desert and sagebrush below.
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