The sound of hooves galloping against the dry gravel echoed through the valley. The wind was blowing in their faces as they rode through the enormous desert—through canyons as vast as the journey ahead, and past farms growing as quickly as their trust for each other. According to Pat, in the place they were going, they might find the person who could guide them toward the Red Rider's hideout.
Suddenly, as they rode through a large, deep canyon covered in shadow, they heard a faint gunshot.
"Did you hear that?" Pat asked him.
"Yeah… unfortunately I did."
They stopped, and with a quiet count of three they hopped off the horse and hid behind a rock, not daring to peek up from behind it. After just a few seconds, they heard it again—this time it was louder. They stayed behind the rock, looking at each other with their hands tightly hugging their revolvers. There were more and more gunshots, but the sound didn't come closer.
"Could it be an ambush? No… with the amount of shots, it just had to be regular hunters."
They nodded, convincing themselves it was just hunters—nothing more. These were common hunting grounds, infested with pheasants and other birds alike.
With a big hop, they got back on the horse and started trotting through the canyon. The dust kicked up by the horse's hooves momentarily blinded Rusty. They picked up their pace. Suddenly, a gunshot rang through their ears, much louder than before. Before they had any time to react, the horse collapsed forward, throwing them both ahead in an instant. The horse's front leg was drenched in deep red. It lay on its side, grunting and squealing for its life. Rusty rolled about six feet forward before finally stopping.
Could he really…? A sudden ambush, in the middle of nowhere… what if he lied about it all?
Rusty's eyes flicked toward Pat, searching his face for a sign of betrayal. Pat was lying on the ground, still sprawled from the fall, not yet back on his feet. Rusty felt a heavy knot in his stomach, nausea rising. Nonetheless, he had no time to worry about that now. Rusty looked up toward the opening of the canyon. Along the sides, there were black shadows—each one with a rifle in their hands, all pointing straight at Rusty. His unease grew.
"Why aren't they pointing at Pat?"
"Stay right where you are and drop that gun, cowpoke," one of the men yelled.
It was a man dressed in black with a red scarf blowing in the wind. He was the closest to him and began slowly walking down toward him from the ledge of the canyon, along a side road leading down. Seeing there was no choice, Rusty took one last glance over at Pat—now standing up straight with not a single gun aimed at him—and dropped his gun to the ground. He lifted his hands to the side of his head, his gaze fixed forward on the empty rock wall far ahead, though that wasn't really where he was looking at all. His mind had wandered somewhere completely else, his heart pumping faster by the minute and his blood boiling. In what felt to Rusty like mere seconds, the man yelling at him was only about fifteen feet away, with a whole squad of riders behind him.
"Oh, well thank you, Patrick. I bet the boss is gonna be real happy with this one, huh? You were probably my last pick for capturing the mighty Ruster Anderson, but hell, I guess Travis was right about you—you're one hell of a hunter," the mysterious man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Pat stayed quiet. He didn't look at Rusty, and neither did he look up at the man talking to him, his face shaded by the old leather hat on his head. The man gave him a pat on the shoulder. He was still looking down, hiding beneath his hat, and didn't utter a word. He walked past the man toward the others waiting with their horses at the back, his eyes tracing the grains on the ground.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry 'bout that horse of yours. I'll be sure to replace it with something better than that old wreck," the man with the red scarf said.
He now looked over at the shaken Rusty, who still stood there with his head down. Rusty met the man's gaze. His face was scarred, as if it had been ripped apart by a mountain lion.
"Lookin' at my pretty face, are you?" the man asked.
Rusty didn't answer. His eyes turned away from the man, wandering off to the left until they finally locked onto the back of Pat's neck. By now Rusty's anger had built up to the point where he could no longer control himself. He leapt toward Pat, who was a good thirty feet in front of him. He started running so fast his legs could barely keep up.
"You bastard! I trusted you! I'm gonna k—"
His roar was cut short. The scarred man tripped him with a single foot, sending him plummeting face-first into the dirt.
"Whoa, a little too hasty there, aren't you, buddy? What's lil' Pat ever done to ya?"
Rusty's rage only grew. He clenched the sandy ground in his fist, lying flat with the side of his face staring into the black leather boot of the mauled man.
"Goodnight, little Ruster."
The last thing Rusty saw was that same black boot swinging toward his head at incredible speed.