Ever vigilant (some would say paranoid), Blake and Taylor took point in broad sweep outside of the Hummer as Edwin held the torch aloft.  The figure Allison pointed out was not difficult to find with a broad sweep of the light; he lay to the side of the road.  Blake could swear that he hadn't hit anything, but it was impossible to be certain; in the controlled spin, he could have been struck by the bumper or spare-tire rack on the back of the vehicle.  Better than a head on collision, but bad enough to lay him out.<br/><br/>The injured man is bundled in blankets and an old leather jacket, a dark scarf wrapped around his face.  The scarf came loose; and you see the old, copper-toned face of a Native American.  His cheeks and chin are scraped raw by the snow; blood is seeping from his nose and his left leg is twisted in an unnatural position, the foot wrenched almost backwards.  His dark eyes burn angrily, and his scowl holds nothing but bitter contempt for the people who just nearly ran him down.  Gray hair and snow fly about his face as he pushes unsteadily to stand up.<br/><br/>"I don't like him," said a voice only Roger could hear, Cindy in full pout.  "Can't we just leave him?"