Lonely, Dark and Deep

The bullet slammed into his temple.

The man turned and fired at Johnston, hitting him in the neck.

Then he swung back around and fired another shot point-blank into Farmer's chest. Farmer -- 6-foot-4 and 325 pounds -- staggered but didn't collapse. Still, he felt the woods spinning, and there was blood in his eye.

Johnston ran for cover into the woods, and his dash yanked Smith's attention away from Farmer. Smith fired off another round toward the fleeing silhouette. The bullet hit Johnston in the back, just at the nape of his neck.

The dog was howling.

Johnston crouched among the trees in the dark, trying to catch his breath. "I thought he was coming after me," he says. "I didn't know whether Sean was alive or dead."

Farmer, meanwhile, had lumbered to his truck, parked about five yards away. He climbed inside. For a few seconds, he wondered if the gunman was chasing after his friend.

From the light of the campfire, Farmer saw a shadow in his rearview mirror. Smith stood at the driver's side of the truck and raised his arm. He pulled the trigger.

The gun didn't fire.

Smith had run out of ammunition. As he began reloading, Farmer popped up and floored the gas pedal. A beam of headlight lit the woods as he screeched onto the road, his head thumping. Was Scott already dead? He told himself he had to get help.

Johnston heard the engine, saw the light and bolted into the road.

Farmer flung the truck door open, and Johnston hopped in. He held a finger to the hole in his neck, which was squirting blood. "I was going to bleed to death if I didn't put my finger in there."