The Writers' Circle

This takes it up to more or less where the short story finished. There are a couple of Shoshone Indian words, but they are explained. I have written several more chapters and the story advances 25 years.  

Chapter 3

"Say Cody, whatdya make of that sky? Are we in for an early snow?"
Cody looked up at the ominous cloud-bank rolling in from the north-west. "I'm beggared if I know Charlie boy. The forecast was supposed to be pretty good. Hey Mitch, stick the Buick the other side of the tents. It might shield us some from the wind." 
Mitch parked the Buick and returned to the camp-fire. Wind blown dust was getting into everything, coffee, hair, clothes, but worst of all, their eyes. 
"Some fishing trip this is turnin' out to be." moaned Mitch, his back to the storm in an effort to shield his face.
There was a sound of canvas ripping, as one of the tents broke free and was carried away across the water. The Spirits of the lake had ordered that the gates of Hell be opened, releasing a storm of such ferocity, the Buick rocked wildly in its wake. The lake, an hour ago, placid and welcoming, was now angry, spewing foaming spray into the air.
"What we gonna do Cody?" yelled Charlie. "We can't sit this one out, it's gettin' too wild."
"You're right, pack what you can, we're gettin' outta...What the heck is that?"
The two younger brothers looked to where Cody was pointing. About fifty yards away, they saw a man coming towards them.
"Jeeesus, he ain't got no clothes on," said Mitch. "And look at them there muscles. Boy, if he had a body-full of hair, he'd be a gorilla. How come he's a walkin' so calmly against this wind?"
"I don't know, but I sure as hell don't like it. Charlie, go get the Winchester."
Charlie handed Cody the rifle. It was loaded and ready to fire, Cody didn't check, he didn't have to. Jake was now no more than twenty feet away and still coming.
"That's far enough stranger. I see you're holdin' a Bowie. Doin' some naked huntin'?
Jake, covered in gray dust, paused momentarily. "Peeppin," he said, then moved slowly towards the trio.
"What'd he say Cody?" asked Mitch. Cody had visited these parts many times and knew some of the natives' language.
"Blood, he said blood. Go home! Pahaimpite!"
Jake stepped slowly forward as Cody raised the rifle. "Kai! Peeppin!"
Mitch put his hand on the barrel of the Winchester. "Leave it be Cody, let's just get in the car an' go."
"Ain't no renegade gonna spoil my fishin' trip," answered Cody, and pulled the rifle away from Mitch's grip and hit him with the butt. Mitch went down as though he'd been pole-axed, and a large bleeding-gash opened up on his forehead.
"Cody!" hollered Charlie, stunned by his brother's outburst of rage, but before he could do anything, Jake leapt forward screaming "Peeppin!" as he thrust the Bowie knife into Cody's belly with such force that Cody was lifted into the air, and thrown bodily into the lake before Cody had time to realise what he had just done to his sibling.
Mitch lay dazed and bloody in the dust, as Charlie, enraged with hate for this intruder, ran at Jake. Fists that had downed far bigger man than he, pumelled the face of Cody's murderer. Jake stood still, a smile forming on his weather-beaten face, as blood from his broken nose trickled into his mouth. Then, in one swift movement, Jake caught hold of Charlie's right fist. The crushing grip cracked bones, as though they were nothing more than candy sticks. Charlie dropped to his knees, his face contorted in agony. With his free hand, Jake made to stab at Charlie's face with the blood-stained Bowie knife, but stopped, just short of piercing the right eye. A smile spread across Jake's face as the blade was withdrawn from Charlie's face. 
"Thank you," whispered Charlie, through the agonising pain. Having a crushed hand was one thing, but the thought of losing an eye...
Had Charlie lost that one eye, then, just maybe, he would have missed the flash of steel, as Jake brought the knife down. But Charlie saw the glint of silver, in an almost indistinguishable moment before his right hand was severed at the wrist.
"Mitch! For Christ's sake help me. Mitch!" Charlie fell to the blood-stained dirt, desperately trying to stem the flow of his life's fluid. The hand which Jake had held so securely, was tossed nonchalantly into the water.
Mitch, realising that he had no answer to this man's murderous power, had crawled and stumbled his way to the Buick. Still dazed from the blow to the head, he managed to get inside, close the door and lock it. The key was still in the ignition. He turned the key and the starter kicked in. The engine refused to fire. "Come on!" he screamed, as he tried again and again, but still the engine refused to start. Mitch kicked down on the accelerator, desperately trying to get gas to the carburettor. Finally, the engine began to splutter, before roaring into life.
In excited panic, he tried to select reverse without dipping the clutch. "Come on! Come on, you bastard, get in!" The grating of the gears only made him wrestle with the lever and he panicked all the more. Blood and sweat streamed from his brow into his eyes. The saltiness caused him to blink and curse.
Jake looked down at Charlie and laughed aloud. With the calmness of a saint, he stepped over Charlie and walked slowly past the tents and round to the rear of the Buick. Mitch's cursing and the noise from the gearbox was all but overshadowed by the roaring wind.
Mitch tried everything to get the Buick into gear. At last, but without conscious effort, he put his foot down hard on the clutch and rammed the gear lever into reverse. The engine screamed as, at full throttle, he released the clutch. Dust, dirt and stones flew into the air as the tyres spun wildly, Mitch somehow had the mind to lower the revs and the tyres bit into the hole they had dug. The Buick shot back at least two vehicle lengths. Out of the windscreen, Mitch saw a body on the ground; it was Jake.
The body lay there, unmoving as the wind reached a howling crescendo. The windscreen of the Buick cracked, then silently imploded, into the car. A sudden streak of lightning felled a nearby tree, and the following crash of thunder seemed to shake the very earth, and reverberated around the lake.
Mitch, shards of glass covering his face, arms and body, sat in the Buick trying to gain some semblance of sanity for a full five minutes, and still the body of Jake didn't move. He wanted so desperately to drive away, to escape the madman. Charlie was alive, and maybe Cody, also. He couldn't leave his brothers. After all, they would never leave him. 
Jake lay prone in the muddy dirt. He hadn't moved an inch since being hit by the Buick. He's gotta be dead, thought Mitch, and slowly, he gained in confidence that it was safe to go to his brothers. Mitch got out of the Buick and walked over to Jake, all the while, in readiness to charge back to the safety of the car. 
The maniac, Jake, looked so... Dead. Mitch kicked the body in the ribs and jumped back just in case there was a reaction, but none came. Certain that Jake had gone to meet his maker, and pay for his sins, he now viciously kicked out: the head, ribs, legs, all were targets for Mitch's revenge.
"Mitch." The weakened voice of Charlie reached his ears, and having given one final kick to Jake's head, Mitch went to his kid brother's aid. "I'm dying, get out while you can."
"Oh Charlie, I'm so sorry. Come on, I'll get you to a hospital."
Charlie's voice was growing ever weaker. "Too late, Mitch, that bastard ain't dead."
"He's gone Charlie. I ran him over then kicked the shit outta the body."
Terror struck at Mitch's heart as a large hand grabbed his neck from behind. Charlie managed a small sardonic laugh. "I told you, Mitch, that bastard ain't dead yet."
Jake, dragging a terrified Mitch by the neck, crawled to the water's edge.
"No! No! Urgh!" Mitch thrashed about as his head was forced, then held, under water. Had he the sense to realise it, the Bowie knife slicing his throat was a welcome relief from water filled lungs.
The Winchester, half buried in dust, was now in the left hand of Charlie. He was almost in a faint as he made his way to the water which was now foaming red. With what little strength he had, Charlie lifted the rifle until the muzzle touched the head of Jake. His final act in this life, was squeezing the trigger.