His leather jacket was covered in patches and insignia, his face already turning blue. Arthur knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. Still alive. Barely. Hey, Arthur shouted over the wind.
Can you hear me? No response. Arthur looked at the man's size, then at his own 80-year-old frame. No way he could carry him. He'd have to drag him.
He grabbed the man under the arms and pulled. It was like trying to drag a refrigerator through mud. His back screamed in protest, his knees threatening to give out, but Arthur gritted his teeth and pulled harder. 1 Foot 2 ft. The barn was 100 yards away.
It might as well have been a 100 miles. He pulled anyway. It took 20 minutes to drag the first man to the barn. Arthur's lungs burned. His muscles trembled, but he got him inside and covered him with horse blankets.
Then he went back out. He found them scattered along the driveway like fallen soldiers. Some had crawled a few feet before collapsing. Others lay where they'd fallen. Arthur counted 19 men in total, each one wearing the same patches, the same leather vests with Hell's Vanguard emblazoned across the back.
One by one, he dragged them to the barn. The last one was different. He lay at the very end of the driveway near the county road, his motorcycle on top of him. Even unconscious, even dying, there was something commanding about him. His face was weathered, scarred, with a gray beard and eyes that, even closed, seemed dangerous.
This had to be their leader. Arthur pushed the motorcycle off him, nearly threw his back out doing it, and checked for injuries. Broken leg, definitely, possibly broken ribs, but still breathing. " Come on, son. " Arthur grunted, grabbing him under the arms. "
Dying ain't allowed on my property. " By the time Arthur dragged the last man into the barn, he couldn't feel his fingers or toes. His heart was doing things it probably shouldn't at his age. But all 19 men were inside, out of the wind, covered with every blanket and tarp he could find. He fired up the old kerosene heater, the one Martha had always complained used too much fuel, and set it in the middle of the barn.
The temperature began to rise, slowly, fighting back against the cold that had seeped into everything. Arthur collapsed onto a hay bale, gasping for air, his entire body shaking. He'd just saved 19 members of the most dangerous motorcycle club in Montana. Martha would have been proud, or she'd have called him an idiot, probably both. Outside, the blizzard raged on, but inside the barn, 19 men began to breathe a little easier.
Their blue lips started to turn pink again. Their frozen limbs began to thaw and Arthur sat watching them, his shotgun across his lap just in case they woke up feeling ungrateful. The first one to wake was the giant Arthur had dragged in first. His name, Arthur would later learn, was Thomas Tiny Mallister, a nickname that was either ironic or someone's idea of a joke. Tiny's eyes snapped open like a predator sensing danger.
His hand immediately went to his belt, searching for a weapon that wasn't there. He sat up fast, then groaned and clutched his head. " Easy there, son. " Arthur said from his hay bale, not moving the shotgun. " You've got hypothermia and probably a concussion.
Moving too quick will just make you puke. " Tiny's eyes found Arthur. Then scanned the barn, taking in the other bodies laid out on the floor, the kerosene heater, the horse blankets. Where? Where am I?
My barn about 15 miles outside of redemption. The others alive, all 19 of you, though I can't promise for how long if that storm doesn't break. Tiny tried to stand, swayed, and sat back down hard. We need to the president. The one with the broken leg.
He's over there still out. Another man stirred, then another. Within 10 minutes, most of them were conscious, though all of them looked like they'd been through a war. They sat up slowly, looking around with the weary eyes of men who'd woken up in stranger places, but never quite like this. One of them, a lean man with a scarred face and intelligent eyes, crawled over to the man Arthur had identified as the president.
He checked his pulse, examined his leg with practiced efficiency. " Doc, " Tiny asked. " He's stable, " the scarred man said. " Leg's broken clean. He'll live. "
He looked at Arthur. " You do this? Get us all inside. Arthur nodded. The bikers exchanged glances.
Tiny spoke first. Old man, do you have any idea who we are? Based on the patches, I'd say you're the hell's vanguard. Based on the newspapers, I'd say you're trouble. Based on the fact that you were freezing to death in my driveway, I'd say you're human beings who needed help.
A younger biker, couldn't have been more than 25, laughed. You helped us. We could rob you blind. We could kill you. Arthur's expression didn't change.
You could try, but I'm 80 years old, son. I fought in Korea, buried my wife last year, and the bank's taking this farm in the spring. You want to kill me? You'd be doing me a favor. But if you want to rob me, I've got about $40 in the house and a pig in the back.
Help yourself. The young biker's grin faded. The scarred man, Doc, studied Arthur with new interest. Korea, Marines, Chosen Reservoir. Several of the bikers straightened.
Even outlaws respected the frozen chosen. What's your name, old man? Doc asked. Arthur Pendleton. Well, Arthur Pendleton, I'm Doc Miller.
That big fellow is tiny. And the man with the broken leg is Silas Grim. We call him the Grim. He's our president. Pleased to meet you, even under the circumstances.
Doc looked around the barn again. You got us all in here by yourself. Wasn't much choice. Couldn't leave you out there. 19 Men.
Some of us weigh over 200 lb. Arthur shrugged. Took a while. Tiny laughed. A deep rumbling sound.