A pack of four wolves was running down the side of a steep mountain. The man dressed in a warm, synthetic, and snow-laden coat carefully loaded five rounds into his neatly polished Smith and Wesson 500 as if he were pushing candles into a birthday cake. His fingers were stiff and burning, and icicles were beginning to form on his moustache. Calmly, he slid the cylinder back into its original position and gave his fingers one last good stretch before looking down the front sight.
The wolves were gradually moving closer; judging by the blood on the alpha's white face, they had made a fresh kill and were sluggish from the meal. They began to circle around a steeper part of the mountain and the man was able to line up his sites on the white alpha. Slowly, he drew the trigger towards him and steadied his hand canon.
A loud shot echoed off of the mountain as the white wolf tumbled from its face. The revolverman could just barely make out a spot of red against the mountain as the wolf fell, and cursed the snow for obscuring his prey for only a split second before lining his front site up on the brown wolf that raced towards the blood. Another shot rang out, and the brown one fell next to the red spot, squirming for a short time then dying. The last two wolves hesitated for a second at the sight, but continued on with a hurried pace aware of something amiss.
The man's knuckles were turning white under his gloves from lack of circulation. Ice was now starting to form on his eyelashes and sparse blonde hair that emerged from under his knit hat. He fought the urge to put down his gun and raised it once more, aiming this time at the gray one. Another shot fired, this one hitting the wolf's chest. The wolf stumbled and then lay down to die in an awkward and unnatural position. The fourth wolf, a red one, stopped to attempt to rouse the grey wolf, giving the hunter all the chance he needed to put a final bullet into the pack, and another shot was fired. The red wolf dropped.
The man unloaded the last shot and the four shells from his revolver, cupping the casings in his hands in a futile attempt to warm them. He then quickly put the 500 into safety by flipping the latch with his thumb and stored it in a leather holster at his side and began to make his way over the snowy terrain towards the bodies of the wolves. His toes and hands were completely numb by the time he found the blood spot, but he soon warmed his fingers in the still-warm fur of the white wolf. After the aching in his palms from the sudden heat ceased, he quickly slipped his gloves back on and threw the white wolf over his shoulders to trek it back to his sled. The four trips with the wolves over his shoulders made him even wearier, but a growing ache in his stomach and the biting cold gave him the strength to strap each one down.
He grabbed hold of the reins and mushed his two dogs onward. The grassy flats of his homeland were buried under the ice and snow. He longed to feel the soil beneath his feet once more, but since the cold had begun, even the conifers were starting to die. He idly watched the breath of his dogs running ahead of him. It was going to be a long way home.