text: Two painted horses draw a wagon. Its wheels crush the dry rocks beneath, leaving dust in their wake. Behind, a western sun nearly touches the cliff tops. A rough looking man holds the reins, greased and tired from near a week in the Arizona heat. Though the man was always ugly, he'd seen better days. He leaned back and exhaled, while his hand searched blindly for the waterskin that dangled from the strap on his neck. He slowed the horses to a stop by a nearby overhang and took a sip. Close to the last. He balled his fist and hammered on the side of the coach, behind where he sat. "Water's low! Gotta find a stream or somethin'!", he hollered back. As he slid his sore legs off the wagon, the doors on both sides creaked open against the sand and wind. A large pair of boots stepped out and hit the ground with force, followed by a much smaller pair from around the other side. The first, with rust-dulled spurs. The second, with the letter "D" sewn, with love, into the leather. A gift from family, back home. "Shit, Bill. You know it ain't rained in three goddamn weeks! Ain't a stream round here hadn't done dried up by now!", said the large boots to the driver. "Think I don't know that, goddamnit?! Think I like runnin' all day with no sleep, ass bleedin' from this goddamned chase you got us on?!" "Now you KNOW I ain't had no choice but to shoot 'im, Bill..." "Why? 'Cause turned out sherry liked his pecker better 'n yours?!" "She was gon' runoff wi' me! ..get a new start somewhere different...I dunno, maybe even have a boy 'r two, if we was lucky 'nuff...I just don't under-" "She's a fuckin' 'HORE, JIM! ..Hell you THINK was gon' happen? They sell ya snake oil, then suck it right back outta ya. Honest to God, I never thought my own brother was this goddamned dull in the head. I ought-" "Daddy", interrupts a weaker voice from out of the man's peripheral. "I seen some m-mule deer bout a mile or so back. They gots to get their water from round here somewheres.", the young boy suggested, hoping to quell his father's rage as much as quench his own thirst. The man wrestled his eyes off his brother, calming slightly. He turned to his son. "Whereabouts, Daniel?", he questioned in a low voice so as to not frighten the boy. "Uhm...about a mile back, when we passed alongside those cliffs, I saw a group of them heading down into the valley below....might be a water hole, maybe..." The man's eyes closed for a moment in thought, and he exhaled once more. "Jim, you stay with Daniel. I'll take one of the horses back and see what I can find." The brother coughed dryly, choking on the air as he opened his mouth to respond. "Look now, Bill, I know we're all thirsty and tired.. but you know, same as I do, these is Apache lands. I think maybe we oughta just wait till the next-" "Next what?! Waterin' hole? Said it yourself, 'ain't rained in three goddamn weeks'...and YOU know, same as ME, we won't make it two more days 'less we find some quick. Now I need you to stay here, sit tight, and try not to fuck anything else up. Can you manage that?" The fugitive brother looked at the ground in defeat. The man's eyes squinted against the setting sun, half hidden by the horizon. He dragged his tongue against his bottom lip, chapped and cracked and bloody. He quickly stuffed a rucksack and unhitched his horse. "Shouldn't be long. Keep here under this 'hang, and stay outta sight." He dug his heels into the beast's sides, froth spat from its mouth, and he faded west behind the dust. Jim pulled a palm across his head, flattening the greased black mess of hair, and took a pained look at his nephew. His tongue cotton, and gut empty. 'What'd I get them into', he thought. A six-shooter rested comfortably in a belt around his waist. Five bullets in the chamber. The man pulled back on the reins, slowing to a stop at the fork that led down into a valley between a few hundred yards of towering red clay. Dusk faded quickly into night. With it, the shrieks of hawks were replaced by the yelps of coyotes, and the chittering of too many legs. He pulled items from his bag; a stick of wood, a can of bacon grease, a torn cloth, and a worn matchbox with the words "Mabel's House of Pleasure" written on the front. He fashioned a torch and struck it to life. In the flickers on the dirt, he saw hoof prints leading lower down the path and spurred the horse gently forward. As he descended, his torch lit the earthen wall beside him. The beast hugged it close, fearful of the unknowable...avoiding the deadly drop that waited, patiently, just two yards to the other side. As he trotted lower and lower, the sounds of night dampened in kind. Soon, only the slow clack of hooves was audible. Just ahead, the path leveled out, somewhat, and he felt a slight moisture in the air. He turned trot to stride and, quickly, the gentle murmur of trickling water approached. A miracle from God. A pool no wider than ten feet, collected at the base of this forsaken rock, from a stream flowing from higher up the hillside. He leapt off the saddle and dunked his head in the cool water. Life itself flowed back into his bones, and he re-emerged as a new man. Born again. Remembering where he was, he regained focus and rushed to fill the waterskins from his sack while the mare drank her fill. As he corked the last of the skins by the pool, a slight wind blew, and a tickle brushed his leg. As if rehearsed in his sleep, a bowie knife appeared in his hand and speared the culprit as he swung around. Impaled into the sand was a thin piece of leather scrap with a broken hawk's feather embedded. His face grew stern, and he started to mount up. As he grabbed hold of the reins, a shot pierced the silence. Then again. Then three more times, together. He clenched his teeth hard, sheathed his knife, and bloodied the horses sides with his heels. With pain in her eyes, she barreled back up the cliff path, no longer concerned with the unknown. About a quarter-mile out, he saw the glow of flames coming from the overhang. He drew his pistol and gripped it with white knuckles, the heat kissing his skin as he pulled closer toward hell. Through squinted eyes, he sees his brother lying a few yards out from the burning wagon. He does not move. His revolver rests half buried in the sand, inches from his fingers, shining like the morning star amongst the blood and fire. He sees no one else. No law. No Daniel. He dismounts and hurries toward Jim. "Maybe he's still alive. Maybe he can say what happened, and where's Daniel.", he hoped. He falls to his knees and sees a bald man. No greasy black hair. Just a mess of bone and blood where there used to be a scalp. Rage becomes the man. A few salty tears are shed. They fall and mix with the blood, still warm, from the knife-wound in his brother's throat. His palms red and knuckles pale, the man stands and turns to the east. Heading away are three sets of tracks. Two of them, large; one of them, small. He ties the mare to a rock away from the heat of the flames, and puts out his torch. He slings his rucksack over his back, takes a sip from his waterskin, and follows the trail. The wagon lights the night behind him. Jim's boots point skyward, rusted spurs half-buried. No bullets left. The weak light of the moon allows him to stalk his enemy. The mild winds do not wash away their steps. The stench of red man is not erased by the sulfur of gunfire, or the blood that wets the earth. God will have them, after he is done. The path leads him back and around, like a horseshoe, near the opposite cliff side of the valley he'd only left an hour or so before. He creeps through the cover of sparse weeds. The cold of desert night is unheeded by the red blood filling his every thought. Roasting meat. The smell wafts by him, sickly savory. It incenses him. His brother lies scalpless and unburied. His son taken. Yet, his enemy roasts meat. He moves further ahead toward the source of the odor, coming upon a rock formation leading to a depression in the cliff side. As he skulked closer he came to the depression and saw a cave was hidden there, behind the entrance, that led deeper into the cliff. He slid off his boots, and gently placed them to the side. He must be silent. Faint light escaped from behind a curve along the cave path, the smell more invasive as he crouched closer to the turn. He arms himself, blade and Colt, and peeks one eye around the corner. A circular room. Moonbeams intersect rising smoke as it escapes through a split in the rock overhead. Two Apaches rifle through pants-pockets. Adjacent, on the floor, two small boots. The letter "D", sewn with love. On the spit behind them, meat roasts. The man turns away and vomits. With his bile is expelled his hope, his fear, and what Christian beliefs he still held. He regains himself and peeks the corner again. The two demons continue to search the belongings of the dead, hissing between each other in some foul speak. At the hip of the closest hung a pale leather scrap, with greased black hair. Ghostly, he stepped closer. His bare feet made little sound, and the red man did not see his pistol's shadow as it aligned with the back of his head. The red man did not see. Hammer strikes powder, face becomes it. A mostly-headless Apache slumps to the cave floor, his memories are written on the wall. The second devil turns quickly, with a guttural cry, and knocks the gun toward his ruined meal. The man and monster clash grips, tripping to the stone. He feels a rib break and wrestles for his hand's freedom, undaunted. He wants to sink his knife and end him. He wants it more than life. As they struggle, their bodies roll toward the fire. He lunges his arm into the flames. Red and white, the skin peels and melts away from both hands. The cannibal relinquishes his hold of the knife to escape, but the man does not let him. He stares into the empty soul of the demon, as the flesh falls away from them both. Seconds pass like winters, and the Apache now screams in pain. He fights like a trapped dog to free himself, only succeeding when the skin that bonded him finally sheds. He falls back, wailing like a bled sheep as he scrambles up against the cold rock. He looks up to see the white man. His red eyes, open so wide. As if they had never shut before. The man rose from the ground and advanced toward his broken enemy; a boy, no more than sixteen. He lies in a puddle of his own making. His heart pumps blood with urgency, as if life depends on it. The man takes a few slow paces, his feet sliced and skinned. The boy takes a few short breaths. The victor crouches, his eyes level with the Apache's. A few seconds pass and his head slowly bows, as if praying for forgiveness. He lifts his gaze. His eyes have no tears. His face has no remorse. The eight inch blade goes six deep. Starting in the soft spot under the chin, and stopping in the sinuses. The man holds the blade as the boy shakes involuntarily, his grip melded with the hilt. He holds it until the shaking stops. Then, he holds it a while longer. He stares into the soulless eyes until he can hold no more. Behind him, the fire has smoldered. Outside, hawks can be heard. Sun rays bounce and form in his son's ash. The smell of burnt meat. The man rises to his feet, limps toward the embers, and retrieves his Colt. He limps back and rests against the rock. Knife, wet, in one hand. Gun, warm, in the other. He tilts his head back and pushes the barrel under his jaw. He draws a long breath, and exhales. "Fuck." He slumps over onto the faceless red man next to him; his skull half gone, scattered around the cave like jacks. In his lap, a small pair of boots, embroidered with love. ...He had always been an ugly man, but he had seen better days.