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Or at least dissipate it. Driven by the worst central Oregon Pacific storm in a hundred years, the storm was building instead of failing. Heated air from grass fires in the Great Basin combined with wind accelerating down the north face of the Colorado Rockies and cold air from a freak storm in British Columbia had combined over Dubois, Idaho and increased the depth the Pacific’s front.The unexpected storm, although only fifty miles wide, was three hundred miles long and gathering strength by the second. Now the worst of the storm was north of a line between Saddlestring, Wyoming and Dubois, Idaho and south of the Montana Wyoming border. No one was making predictions as to the severity after crossing the Big Horns.I was getting ready for the fourth week of my classes on Flintlock Rifles.Heeding the warnings I fished out the lockbox and took out the envelope with the strap and the Colt 1908. On the way through town I picked up two boxes of Winchester .380 hollow-points, a pound of ffg. “Honey, its daddy!” he shouted through tears and sobs. “Open your eyes Jenny…please!” But she did not. He turned towards the embankment and up to the break in the guardrail. Lights of every sort now beamed and flashed from behind the gap: emergency strobes, floodlights, the amber shimmer of open flame. “Somebody,” he shouted with all the strength he could. “Please help me!” Nothing. He turned back to the vehicle. Like the crazed man he was he clawed at the door madly, beat the glass with all he had and kicked at the demolished quarter panel all to no avail. He cursed and screamed and wailed and when he could finally give no more he collapsed to the ground. With one final and breathless plea he cried, “Oh God, somebody! Please help me!” Then all went silent. She appeared at the top of the embankment as if from nowhere at all: a woman, young and fair, dressed in lavender. Though her face should have been shrouded by shadow he could see her clearly as if illuminated by a light of her.
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