Wyoming Territory.
The Red Desert.
1886.
Jonah Hex walked alone across the hot, desolate landscape. He'd been walking for about five hours straight and had just recently removed his confederate army jacket and tied it around his waist because it was starting to stifle him. He'd left his confederate hat on, though, to block the sun from his eyes and also to stop the sweat from getting in them. Even so, his face was covered in sweat, as was his chest and back, which glistened in the boiling sun. You would think that after five long hours of trudging through sand, a man would be tired, but with each step of his heavy, leather boots, Jonah Hex became angrier and more determined to keep walking until he had walked himself out of the desert and into the nearest town. After a short rest and a bath, he'd track down the outlaws who had abandoned him out there to die and give them a bad case of lead poisoning.
The thought of that made Jonah smile a rare smile, which would have almost made him look pleasant if it weren't for the fact that the right side of his face was so badly mangled and scared that a smile on him couldn't look anything but ghastly.
All of a sudden, against his will, Jonah fell to his knees. He looked around at the sprawling wasteland on all sides of him, then down at the empty gun holster attached to his belt. The outlaws had taken his gun. Jonah looked up at the unforgiving desert sun and then straight ahead of him. Then, with a smile still on his face and his eyes wide open, he fell forward, face first into the sand.
After all, he was only human.
To Be Continued