In rolling heat, under a bleached bone sky, all you have is your horse. Guns quickly shed their bullets on dog soldiers, canteens run dry, but even a scrub should stick with you ’til the end.
They said he was a widowmaker, but I was ridin’ crowbait–I had no choice. His head was milk-dipped, a strong blaze runnin’ from ear to muzzle. A six-shooter snuffy, quick to slat his sails and leave me dusted. Not fit for ridin’.
I woke up to hot breath and a heavy hoof on my chest, hell-fired, coal-black eyes starin’ into me. Shoulda known better.