The air in the desert felt stiff, hot, and seemed to be made of dust spewed from hell itself. A man whose face was familiar to every lawman and runaway outlaw on the frontier allowed his horse to stumble along. His clothes were threadbare, his beard unkempt, but on his chest, a Sheriff's badge gleamed, a sharp contrast to everything else about him.
The man was,Thomas,dying of thirst. The pursuit behind him no longer mattered; there was only the raw ache in his throat. He muttered, his raspy voice sounding like grinding sand: "Damn it... where else am I supposed to find water? Goddamn Indians! Am I just supposed to ride until I drop dead?"
In the distance, his strained eyes caught a figure crumpled amongst the rocks. Near the corpse's waist, a canteen.
He let out a sharp, joyful whistle. He spurred his horse forward, a pure, primitive glee twisting into a savage grin on his face.
When he arrived, the sweet scent of death was his welcome. The fellow was gone; his eyes open, staring straight into the cruel sun. Thomas, his legs feeling like dead wood, dismounted. He didn't look the dead man in the face; he went straight for the canteen strap.
He tore the water bottle free, yanked the stopper, and tilted it back, his hands shaking.
"Goddammit! Empty! The bottle's dry!" He slammed the canteen into the sand with a furious cry. A crushing weight settled over him. In the heat, a cold sweat drenched his face. The badge was bright, but its weight was now unbearable.
Slowly, his hand reached up and unpinned the precious 'Sheriff's' badge. He stared at it—a silent confession of the failure he couldn't outrun.
He looked back down at the dead man. He stared for a long, long time, until recognition finally dawned.
"Jeb? Is that you. Christ, Jeb, wake up, partner." His breathing was ragged, his face slick with cold sweat. It wasn't just a corpse now; it was an old acquaintance.
What in the hell did this man do to end up here? The answer lay long before this cursed sun.