Walt passes the station and double backs without a word said between us. It's that unspoken language between partners. On the back pass I note the driver behind the wheel and my neck swivels trying to spot the possibility of a passenger.

"Call it in."

"On it."

I radio Ruby our location and the license plate. Keystone State license plates. It's them. The numbers match.

Walt stops a car length behind them so he can maneuver around the pumps if he has to; he slams the Bronco in park, and my foot holds my door open while I check our surroundings.

We approach the Buick and I hear it before my brain registers the subtle chime of the bell ringing as the advertisement laden glass opens and everything starts to shut down when I feel the heat in my side and the air being sucked out of my lungs. I notice his creamy soft brown suede lace ups with oiled dark brown laces as I fall to the grease stained cement. My Glock is pointed up and I'm firing with one hand, trying to suck in air, but I can't quite seem to catch my breath.

Run.

Run.

Run is all I hear in my brain.

Close the distance to the threat. Where did I learn that? I'm fucking questioning my tactics. I shouldn't be doing that.

I'm yelling.

I know it's me.

I can hear it but it doesn't make sense.

He's down in the doorway but he doesn't look right.

Drop it. Drop the fucking gun. I sound muddled and underwater and my legs feel heavy and its Burt, the clerk, holding his double barreled saw-off Remington 870 and the smoke is sensuously trailing up from the barrel.

Burt shot the suede shoes in the back of the head. He's dead.

My gun leads my path. I have to clear the store I think. Are there more targets? Are there more threats?

"Burt, are there any more gun packing motherfuckers in here?"

He shakes his head, unfazed by what he did, but maybe it's shock. I don't know.

The chimes. The chimes keep ringing. What the fuck is with the chimes.

I'm standing in the tunnel of death. I can't stop here in the doorway. I can't stay here.

"Fuck. Walt." I try to breathe but I can hear my breath. This is all wrong.

I see him and he looks ten feet tall. Paul Bunyan. He's coming around the Bronco, the door slamming; one side of his shirt tail is pulled out, his jacket in disarray.

His face is colorless and he's moving too slow. Get the fuck over here I yell but there's nothing coming out. I can't hear my voice.

His hands reach out and they are huge. Lumberjack . Why am I thinking…what the fuck…I can't seem to catch my…Walt?

Sorry for such a short chapter but we need to celebrate the premiere date of Season 4, September 10th, on Netflix. So make your plans. Enjoy the short chapter. Don't be pissed at me and remember to leave feedback.

Thanks to all the loyal readers and I hope you are stoked like I am that our favorite Sheriff and Deputy will be back soon! #LongLiveLongmire