TheCorsair
Pēdicãbo ego võs et irrumäbo
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2013
The noonday sun beat down on the dry, packed earth of the Texas badlands. Buzzards circled in the sky, wheeling on thermals and casting fleeting shadows on the figures below. Still and silent, the scattered men and horses lay where they had fallen in a crimson-spattered silence broken only by the lazy buzzing of flies. The buzzards did not hurry. They didn't need to. Their carrion below wasn't going anywhere.
One of the bodies twitched convulsively, clutching at an abdominal wound that oozed thick and crimson. A rattling groan of pain wheezed through cracked, blackened lips, and piercing blue eyes stared from a sunburnt face into the beaten iron sky. Caked with dust and crusted with blood, wearing a grey canvas duster over loose jeans and a loose cotton shirt, the aspiring corpse could have been a tall woman or a shorter man. A plain leather holster and plain boots added nothing to the identification.
"Gawddamn," the figure croaked, a raspy sound higher than most men but lower than most women. It pushed up on a wounded arm, making a strangled sound as it did, then collapsed back to the hard-packed dirt. Overhead, the buzzards watched unmoved.
"C'mon, Sam," the figure croaked. ""Y'gotta... gotta do this!" The voice broke into a hollow sound not really loud enough to be a scream as it pushed with a wounded leg. The figure slid a little, then moaned in pain again as it rolled over. Blood flowed thickly from wounds as it rolled, the clots ripping loose.
"Ah! Ah-ahlright, Sam," it gritted, groping ahead with a bloodstained glove. "Crawl. Crawl, 'r yehr gonna... gonna die." But it laid there, on the baked earth, gathering strength. Finally, painfully, it slowly began to drag itself towards the meager shelter of a large rock.
Leaning heavily against the scorching rock, Sam Cavendish worked the cylinder of a revolver and counted the cartridges. It was difficult to do, with greeting vision and shaking hands, but the consensus of the three attempts was that it was fully loaded. Six .45 ACP bullets.
Not enough. Not anywhere near enough. Not if the ambush party returned.
Memory returned with the thought, memory like a fever dream. Sam had been hired to lead a posse consisting of a Ranger and a half-dozen deputies to... to... That part of the memory was blurry, drowned by surprise and terror and the thunder of rifles. By the screams of men and horses, and the burning pain of bullets striking flesh, and a fall that ended in blackness.
"Not... enough..." Sam wheezed, slumping against the stone. "Kin... take a... a few o'... I' th' bastards... wit' me... but..."
Blearily, Sam saw or imagined movement in the distance. The pistol came up, jumping wildly in a weak, shaky fist. "Who... who's there..?"
If there was an answer, it went unheard. Weakened by blood loss and dehydration, the pistol tumbled from the gloved hand as Sam collapsed
One of the bodies twitched convulsively, clutching at an abdominal wound that oozed thick and crimson. A rattling groan of pain wheezed through cracked, blackened lips, and piercing blue eyes stared from a sunburnt face into the beaten iron sky. Caked with dust and crusted with blood, wearing a grey canvas duster over loose jeans and a loose cotton shirt, the aspiring corpse could have been a tall woman or a shorter man. A plain leather holster and plain boots added nothing to the identification.
"Gawddamn," the figure croaked, a raspy sound higher than most men but lower than most women. It pushed up on a wounded arm, making a strangled sound as it did, then collapsed back to the hard-packed dirt. Overhead, the buzzards watched unmoved.
"C'mon, Sam," the figure croaked. ""Y'gotta... gotta do this!" The voice broke into a hollow sound not really loud enough to be a scream as it pushed with a wounded leg. The figure slid a little, then moaned in pain again as it rolled over. Blood flowed thickly from wounds as it rolled, the clots ripping loose.
"Ah! Ah-ahlright, Sam," it gritted, groping ahead with a bloodstained glove. "Crawl. Crawl, 'r yehr gonna... gonna die." But it laid there, on the baked earth, gathering strength. Finally, painfully, it slowly began to drag itself towards the meager shelter of a large rock.
Leaning heavily against the scorching rock, Sam Cavendish worked the cylinder of a revolver and counted the cartridges. It was difficult to do, with greeting vision and shaking hands, but the consensus of the three attempts was that it was fully loaded. Six .45 ACP bullets.
Not enough. Not anywhere near enough. Not if the ambush party returned.
Memory returned with the thought, memory like a fever dream. Sam had been hired to lead a posse consisting of a Ranger and a half-dozen deputies to... to... That part of the memory was blurry, drowned by surprise and terror and the thunder of rifles. By the screams of men and horses, and the burning pain of bullets striking flesh, and a fall that ended in blackness.
"Not... enough..." Sam wheezed, slumping against the stone. "Kin... take a... a few o'... I' th' bastards... wit' me... but..."
Blearily, Sam saw or imagined movement in the distance. The pistol came up, jumping wildly in a weak, shaky fist. "Who... who's there..?"
If there was an answer, it went unheard. Weakened by blood loss and dehydration, the pistol tumbled from the gloved hand as Sam collapsed