The warm orange hue from the sun liquefied into the midst of the purple sky as dusk was upon night in the desert highlands of California, half a day's ride out from the Arizona border. The clattering of iron clanging against the rock-embedded soil was the only sound to be heard for miles. The noise persisted as a stagecoach barreled around a steep, winding ledge, skidding along the jagged pathway. The man atop the driver's box looked out ahead, with no clear path in sight, he continued along its ever-decreasing elevation. Fretful for his one faithful steed that pulled the entire load, he stayed steadfast, if he was to make it to a ravine before nightfall, he could set up camp thus giving her the much-needed rest.

As he embarked on the precipice of the plateau, he saw the shrewd terrain ahead and tugged back on her reins. A crackling sound on one of the loose spokes swiftly arose. It crescendoed when the hobbled spoke splintered and fractured into two causing the wagon wheel to jump violently. Jarring loose the iron band, the hub gyrated vehemently until it sheared off the axle and smattered into pieces on the nearby rocks. The coach toppled, gnashing into the course gravel, sending the driver flying through the air. He landed several feet away when it flipped on its front end slamming not only his horse down on her side but landing on top of him.

The coach's contents spewed out across the ridgeline. The driver's right leg was pinned under the coach and severely mangled. He winced in pain as he tried to wedge his hand between the wreckage in an attempt to free himself. His horse lay up on her side bucking frantically, he swallowed hard trying to calm her down as she squirmed incessantly. He reached for the reins to free her, they were just outside of arm's reach, still tied along the front of the coach seats.

As dusk turned to night, his cries for help were all but a faint whisper dissipating apace under the vast desert sky. He took to conserving his strength for the following day, internalizing his cries for help into prayers. He laid his hand upon his horse's rear leg petting her softly, letting her know that he was there with her. It was important for him to comfort her, to keep her calm, as her cries into the night would only bring along the unwanted company of the vicious hungry coyotes. This was of course assuming he could make it through the night. The chill from a long winter's night in the desolate desert was a brutal one, the kind of cold that sets inside your bones and congeals the blood to a marmalade state.

"Betsy, Ol' girl it's gonna be alright now, you hear me. Gonna get help, then I'll get you free," he whispered gently.

The sun rose puncturing through the gloomy morning haze, a light beaming straight from the heavens woke him from his slumber. The pain in his right leg had almost ceased to exist, as the trauma to his right leg was almost assuredly causing his body to go into shock. It wasn't until he tried to sit up and reposition himself that he felt a sharp, fierce pain rise from his shin up his spine. He finagled his hand into his left pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, spared from damage, he held it dear to his chest. He summoned enough strength in his voice to carry on with his cry for help. After hours of enduring the fruitless endeavor, he heard rustling in the sagebrush several yards off.

A man appeared, slashing through the dry brush with a large buck knife along his way. The gaunt, lanky man had certain sickly qualities about him, his skin was a certain shade of pale and glistened as if entombed with sweat. The good Samaritan ushered over quickly, assessing the situation. He knelt beside the damage and tried to lift the coach from its side, it was too heavy for any one man to do so on his own. He looked about the scattered debris to find a pry that would give him the leverage to free the pinned man.

"Lord almighty, let me tell you I prayed all night for someone to come along and help me, and here you are. Thought I'd fallen on deaf ears. Thank you, Mister," The stagecoach driver said excitedly.

The good Samaritan scoured through the coaches' scattered belongings when he came across a satchel under a pile of clothes. He rifled through its contents, removed several large bill folds, and rolled up wanted posters. He looked precariously at the injured man.

"Say, you some kind of Marshall? Are these rewards for bounties on these men's heads?" The Samaritan asked.

"Whatever you find, you can have, I promise it to ye'. Just get me out from under this damned heaping pile first, it's all I ask," the man said as he continued pushing on the coach to no avail.

The Samaritan stuffed the wadded-up bill folds securely into the satchel and threw it over his shoulder. He walked briskly back to the man and drew his pistol.

"Yous' were the one praying, but it looks as if it's my prayers that have been answered," the Samaritan said dawning a fiendishly malicious grin, while slowly cocking back the hammer on his standard Army issue Colt .45 revolver.

As the pinned man began his nervous plea, he saw the revolver drawn upon him and shouted, "You rotten, slumguzzlin'—"

The Samaritan fired off a shot into his belly. The blood oozed up, pumping slowly to the cusp of his skin, cascading over and soaking his worn canvas shirt. The Samaritan continued rummaging through his belongings, while he lay bleeding out.

"Is this your hat?" he asked, as he picked up the driver's soiled leather hat, that lay several feet from him. "Sure, is a mighty fine hat," he continued as he dusted off the brim.

He placed the hat firmly on his head, fitting it snugly and continued to dig through the waste. He came upon a canteen, opened it, placed his nose about the brim, and took a whiff. He took a large swig, then walked over to where the horse lay and dumped the remains of the canteen near the horse's gaping mouth, she began to lap it up.

"Drink up girl, going to need your strength."

He slowly made his way back around the coach, standing before the driver who lay gargling blood while cursing obscenities in his direction. He noticed the pocket watch and tried to grab it from his tightly clenched fist, for a dying man, his grip remained fierce. He snatched the man's wrist with his right hand and pried away his fingers with his, one by one.

The bloodied man in angst, spat up the mouth full of blood towards the Samaritan. The blood spewed out like a small crimson geyser, yet never reached the Samaritan as he stood back upright. The volcanic rise splattered back down on the man's face and the Samaritan's boot. The Samaritan chuckled, dragging the tip of his boot in the dirt to wipe the blood from it. When he turned back to look down at the driver, he saw only the gun barrel the man had drawn upon him.

The gun wavering hither and thither, as the frail man mustered his last bit of strength to steady his shot. He squeezed the trigger and the bullet ripped through the pit on the inside of the Samaritan's left arm. Tearing through muscle and flesh and shattering bone along the way. He drew back grimacing in pain, before the adrenaline set in, and he retaliated with a fusillade of assertive kicks to the man's skull.

Unrelenting, even when the pistol in his right hand dropped, even as the man's fractured skull began to cave. He finally gave way, when a buzzard approached, perching along the top of the wreckage. He picked up the man's gun, took heed of the empty cylinder, and tossed it to the side.

"There's a hell of a lot of horrible ways to go in this world, but I can't think of none worse than a buzzard plucking out your eyes to be the last thing you see. I ought to put a bullet straight between them eyes, I gots the right, I do. Except I reckon I'll just leave you here, for the death you deserve," the Samaritan said, tipping his cap.

He languished over to the driver's box, his left arm dangling at his side, he grabbed the reins from where the horse had been tied and cut away at them with his buck knife. He stood her up, talking to her, calming her nerves as the last gunshot had her rattled. She had a slight limp as he paced her back and forth positioning her to mount up and ride off. He felt the warm blood that began leaking down the inside of his arm as he struggled to climb up on her.

He pulled her close to the toppled stagecoach, stepping on top of the brake beam to better position himself. He swung his left leg over while pulling on her bridle tightly. He slid atop her back, snatched the reins, and gave her a firm kick with the heel of his boot into her side, she obliged but did so begrudgingly. She trudged along with a noticeable hitch in her giddy-up, breaking stride to favor her front left hoof every few hundred paces.

He had just laid to rest his own dastardly steed days before, a beautiful mare, he had come upon while working as a ranch hand in New Mexico. The sack of bones he now set up on was an old nag. When she finally pulled up lame a few miles later, he took her reins and tried to push forward. She reared back, snarling, bucking, no longer being able to put weight on her front hoof. Knowing that she had gone just about as far as she possibly could he laid her down. He removed his pistol and placed it firmly between her eyes.

He took count of the last four bullets that he had in the cylinder. His finger squeezed the trigger firmly, and the shot rang out, a loud percussive blast reverberating off the nearby canyon walls. The beast's head sank, her pain ceased, and the glint of life that was fleeting in her pupils flickered out thereafter. As he holstered the still-smoking pistol, his left arm began throbbing.

Heart palpitating, the adrenaline had waned, an intense noxious sensation of pain crippled him momentarily. The blood that had been trickling down his wrist now poured uncontrollably. He tore away his bloody sleeve to fully expose the wound. A gaping hole with fragments of lead and bone lined the opening of torn flesh. He pulled his buck knife from its leather sheathing and began to cut away at the old nag's bridle and reins to fashion himself a tourniquet. He bit down on one end of the leather binding, sneering while he wrapped his arm tightly tying off a knot, cutting off the blood flow.

The midday sun began to bare down on him as he ambled on, en route along the nearest canyon wall, seeking refuge in the shadow it cast. No signs of vegetation, water, or any other pertinent resources. The ground was hardened and cracked along its surface; it looked as if shards of clay-colored glass were sprinkled about as far as the eye could see. He found solace along the jagged face of the canyon wall; the course limestone was cold to the touch.

As he pondered his next move he heard the pitter-patter of horse hooves off in the distance, couldn't have been more than a few hundred paces. He lurched forward, towards a nearby alcove to take cover. The clatter of the horse's hooves was thundering straight towards him. He took a deep breath and unholstered his weapon, slowly drawing back the hammer, to not make a sound. As the horse drew near, she neighed several paces away as her rider peeled back on the steed, snatching the reins, she snarled something fierce. The rider whispered in her ear, gently patted her head, then rode off.

He cautiously slipped out of the small cave he had hidden inside, he could hear the horse's hooves faintly, although, to his surprise, there was no sight of the rider or his horse. Only a small cloud of dust that dissipated a few feet from where he stood, remained. The pain in his arm swelled and sank, it arose in droves and left as quickly as it came. This continued as he carried along the canyon face for several hours.

He came across a dried-up creek bed, its soft sandy footing, was greatly welcomed as it gave the necessary leisure to his battered feet. The leather soles of his boots were worn thin, and his heels mirrored the desert floor he traversed for the last few days. He carried along the creek bed in hopes of finding the remnants of the water it once carried in abundance. He plucked dried thistle and snapped off twigs from the sagebrush he passed along his way, he gathered them for the kindling he would later use to start his fire. Tying off the bundle with bits of string that he removed from his tattered sleeve.

He looked over the exposed wound on his shoulder, a translucent fluid brimmed along the edges and leaked down the backside of his arm. He wiped the dirt from his fingers on his chest as he pulled out larger pieces of bone shards that sat embedded in the mashed pulp of flesh, muscle, and tendon. He winced in anticipation of an incomprehensible pain; however, on the contrary, he felt no pain at all.

The blood atop the wound had set up, baking in the sun, crusting over, and turning black along the perimeter. He removed the top from his canteen and carefully poured small increments of water into the open wound. His pace dragged along slowly, barely lifting his feet, when he decided this was as good a place as any to set up camp.

He gazed longingly at the sun, as it set its pathway onto the horizon. He knew the heat it gave off during the day while beating down on the ground below was cruel, but nowhere near as cruel as the grueling chill of the winter nights. Keeping warm by the side of a fire tonight would fare on the side of necessity. He laid out his bundled kindling and pulled out his flint and tinderbox. After several attempts, the tinder caught a spark, and he cultivated the flame. He needed to find something to sustain the fire throughout the night, there was no driftwood or any other incendiary brush.

He perused about, climbing along the escarpment, when a walloping ballyhoo swelled as a cloud of dust emerged upon the ridgeline, across from the valley below him. He awaited the herd of stampeding cattle to show themselves, he thought if he could snare one, that would hold him over the next few days until he could get into the nearest town. A lone rider materialized amongst the voluminous dust cloud, then disappeared again back down the other side of the hill. It wasn't a herd of buffalo or cattle being wrangled; it was just one man. He thought to himself, was this the same rider, that rode up on him hours before, then seemingly disappeared from sight in mere moments.

The steed, the rider rode upon had such a thundering clatter that it sounded like a posse of men riding out on the plains. The dust swelled again as the rumbling sound was getting louder. He crouched down behind a rock, pulled his pistol, and took aim, propping his arm up on the rock awaiting the rider to show himself along the ridge. He held his breath for his aim to be true, a white horse with a flowing long mane peeped her head above the ridge line, galivanting fast in his direction. Just as the top of the rider's hat brimmed on the cusp, a glint off the valiant steeds' steel bridle beamed into his sight line.

He peeled back; the blinding light caused a momentary myopia. He slunk down hiding behind the rock, not trying to divulge his position. His heart beat fast, and his sight came back slowly, seeing only blurry shadows. The sound of the hooves pounding the ground swelled. He cocked the hammer on his pistol and peered out over the rock maintaining his cover. The hazy cloud of dust moved swiftly towards him.

He fired off a shot, hoping to get the rider to pull back, revealing himself long enough for a clean shot. If he could saddle up on that horse, he could make it to town by morning and he may even be able to salvage his arm. The horse snorted as he popped up above the rock, his vision still askew. He fired off a second shot at the silhouette of the hellacious beast. The rider steadied her, dug his spurs into her side, and rode off.

His left eye clenched tight, and the caked-on dried mud that was spackled on his forehead flaked and fell from his face as he squint. Drew a bead on the shadow that moved swiftly across the land, and he squeezed the trigger when he lost his footing. The sandy soil gave way, and he slid down the face of the hillside. His unforeseen tumble landed him into a bed of cacti. He lay there for a moment, basking in the pain from a thousand pricks to his skin. He listened solemnly as the steed rode off towards the setting sun.

The embers of the fire he started gave light, guiding him back down the hillside. He slouched against a large rock, sliding down slowly as he began plucking away at the barbs of cactus that embedded his skin. He rubbed his bare left arm, the skin had no sensation, yet felt as cold to the touch. The infection in the wound spread throughout his arm. He removed the bandage from the wound and massaged the edges, he poked and prodded the swollen area, it was the only part of his arm that emanated heat. He squeezed it, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, cracking the dried blood, and a thick curdled pus oozed out. The smell was foul, he gagged as the putrid stench clung to the inside of his nostrils. He wiped away the pus, dragging his fingers along the inseam of his pants to clean them before placing back the bandage.

He took off his satchel and laid his head upon it. He tore away at the twigs from the last sagebrush, tossing them into his bed of embers. The frost from his breath lingered heavily like a fog engulfing his face. He sat up against the rock, the cold night had reached its peak and he was fresh out of kindling. He removed his buck knife and jostled the bed of embers to keep the fire from going out. He looked down at the satchel, and snatched it up, removed the wanted posters he had found inside of it earlier. He unrolled them, tore away at sections, and tossed them in, fanning the flames with the remaining bits.

He huddled close to keep warm, after an hour or so he had tossed in his last remnants of paper. The anemia, caused by blood loss, made him feel colder than it was. He was rattled with the fear of death by hypothermia, causing him to waive his hand frantically through the flame. He opened the satchel to rummage through what could be used to keep the fire going. He removed the wadded-up billfolds, unwound the bindings, and began to toss the bills in, one at a time.

With each bill he placed in the fire, it flamed up, a molasses like explosion and albeit brief it gave him the warmth needed to stave off the inevitable death. An hour or so after midnight, with a few dollars left in his hand. He sat there shivering, his teeth chattering, he took in deep and measured breaths, for they may be his last. He was weak, starvation, the loss of blood, the infection that ensued, the blistering cold, and sleep deprivation had finally corralled him and got the better of him.

The only thing keeping him around was hallucinations, he heard the voices of the men he killed calling to him. His mind wasn't totally absent, he knew the dead couldn't speak, it was all in his head or his conscience finally speaking to him after thirty-odd years of depravity, figments of his own convoluted imagination. He knew there was one way to rid himself of the voices that called to him. He pulled his pistol, took heed of the last round in the cylinder, spun it to the chamber, and cocked back the hammer, just as he heard the monstrous beast off in the distance, once again.

He felt the hot gusts of air that came with her, the wind blew past the fire stoking the flames to new heights. He was mesmerized by the beautiful flicker of the flame and the awesome heat it gave off, providing the needed warmth to his entire body. He sat up fully erect against the rock, the sound of the beast, as she was a mere fifty paces off, sounded like a locomotive arriving at a train station. Her hooves pounded the soft sandy creek bed, and he could feel the vibrations underneath his body.

The rider gave the command and pulled back on the reins. She snarled, rustling and jostling amongst the brush, as she acquiesced. Her hellacious snorts gave off steam from her nostrils. The rider unmounted and began walking towards the fire, his spurs jangled as he came forward.

Laying against the rock, all he could see was the heat waves coming off the fire, he cried out, "Who goes there?"

"Samuel Tarr, you're wanted for murder in three states. I'm here to see your victims get the justice they deserve," the Rider called out.

"I am Samuel Tarr, so, if you know who I am, you best tread lightly now Mister, while I still got one left in the chamber," Samuel shouted. He grinned as this was the death he always dreamt of. To die in a gunfight, with one's boots on was the only acceptable entrance to the American Valhalla.

"Do ye now, best not miss. Take aim and hold steady," the Rider said continuing forward, taunting him.

Samuel raised his steel Colt .45; his hand began to quiver and shake. The sheer weight of the piece was insurmountable for the frail shadow of a man, his arm fell limp to his side. Samuel failed to see beyond the heat waves drifting over the flames, in an attempt to face his accuser, before he hung his head in defeat.

"I ain't got no fight left in me."

"Samuel Tarr, wanted on multiple counts of murder in Texas, Arizona, and two counts of larceny, theft, and murder in New Mexico. How do you plea?"

"Hogwarsh, good for nothing malarkey."

"Samuel, it was my understanding that you were more of a man of honor, than that of a petulant child. I asked you how you plea. I ain't fixin' to hear the nonsense that dribble out of your mouth. Guilty or not guilty need to be the next words that I hear from you."

"I ought to kill you, you son of a bitch!" Samuel shouted as he coughed up a mouthful of blood that sat perched at the corner of his lips.

"Trying my patience, you must," he sighed heavily, unholstering his pistol before calling to him once more. "I admire your sand, I truly do, but seeing how times a wasting, best be on with it. I'm here to see that you stand trial. Nothing more, nothing less. So once again I ask you, how does one plea?"

"Guilty, I reckon I've done all the things they say I've done," Samuel stated with a moral sense of ambiguity.

"Warms the cockles of my heart, to hear such honesty from a man so morally askew," he said holstering his pistol.

"I may be guilty, but you ain't ever going to see me hang," Samuel sneered a haunting cackle while choking up more blood that built up in the back of his throat and trickled down his cheek.

"And why's that?"

"It's at least a night's ride to the next town over. And I ain't got that much time left in me, Mister."

"Well, now that is a quandary."

The Rider walked around the large fire that sat between the two men, he was cloaked in all black, a stark contrast to his pale white horse. Long shadows cast over him as he continued to walk forward with the moonlight behind him. The flickering light from the campfire lit up Samuel's face, yet didn't seem to light up the riders, giving off the haunting presence of a large silhouette that loomed over Samuel.

"Do you smell that?" the Rider asked.

Samuel took in a large breath through his nose, odor of the burnt sagebrush wafted up, covering the foul putrid stench of gangrene that enflamed his arm. "What's that you say? I don't smell anything more than this here fire."

"No, this is the kind of smell you can't just wash off, it clings to ya,'" he said sniffing like a Bassett hound. "It's you, you got the stench of death on you."

"Maybe, but you ain't never gonna' see me hang, best shoot me dead, right where I sit."

"I never said I was here to see you hang. I'm here to see you stand trial and claim what's mine. I'm here for your soul, I seek retribution for your sins," the Rider exclaimed, pulling out his pistol while crouching down to look Samuel eye to eye.

"Shoot me now!"

"Waste my precious ammo on a corpse, never," the Rider said sheepishly.

"Well then, what do you want from me?" Samuel asked, feeling too weak to combat wits with the Rider any further. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the rock.

"Hell son, haven't I been brutally honest with you to this point?" he asked.

Samuel slumped downwards from his prone position. He slid down the rock and onto his back, his eyes closed as even the feat of opening them felt daunting at this point. He struggled to speak, "Say, Mister, you got a drink on you? A whiskey perhaps?"

"Samuel, stay with me now, don't drift off to sleep, that's rude. I'm talking to you, son. Samuel!" he shouted several inches away from Samuel's face.

Samuel opened his eyes, wrought in fear he shouted, "Damn my eyes!"

The Rider slowly removed his hat, his scalp was pale, too pale even for the moonlight overhead. It was that of bone, with the horns of a steer protruding out of each side. Samuel was frozen in horror, perplexed as to what he was seeing. The rider's nose looked as if it was sawn off, yet even worse were his eye sockets, which looked sunken, blackened, and sullied. The flames from the fire grew menacingly, climbing over the rock basin and towards the two of them. Samuel remained immobilized, and fear-stricken and began to repent all the sins he committed against his fellow man. Tears rolled down his cheeks and singed as they trickled off his face and fell into the fire beside them.

A shuffling of one's boot near his head caught his attention. The man who stood directly above him was none other than the stagecoach driver, he left to die earlier that morning. Samuel thought to himself, That bastard has got to be one tough son of a bitch. How the hell did he ever get out of there alive?

As he wrestled to gain his composure, he noticed they weren't the only two men present with him, he looked about to see that there were eight other men standing in near proximity. As he leered out across the blaze he saw the faces of the other men, men whose lives he had taken, some years prior. As the fire continued to rage, it crept up his right arm like a molten lava, eviscerating everything in its path. He had hoped this all may just be some bad dream of sorts, a nightmare, he was surely to awaken from.

The effluvium of rapturous flame poured onto his chest continuing to make its way towards his face. His skin crackled and sizzled like chard stew meat skidding across an iron skillet. At about the point it reached his eyes, just before they began to liquefy in their ocular cavities, is when he saw his body, still sitting upright against the rock. With death now in tow, the Rider shushed him in jest, sneering a hellacious smile across his coarse visage as Samuel's screams fell in silence.