Sunset was two hours past and still he kept pushing, pushing the big black gelding on through the darkness. Despite his skittishness the horse gamely plowed on mile after mile responding to the jolt of sharp spurs relentlessly jabbed into froth-flecked flanks. White foam sprayed from the beast's mouth with every lunge of his massive head flying back on the black clad rider bent low in the saddle, his prey long since hidden by the gloom of night.
Only the thundering of the lead horse's hooves and the occasional glimpse of a white linen duster in the distance kept him going. His closeness to the fleeing rider, a man who might answer his questions, lead him to the murderer of his wife and child, caused him to pull out all the stops and plunge virtually blind across the inflexible and inhospitable desert.
Cactus and mesquite tore at both horses and riders and cut through material and hide alike. Pulling his hat lower to protect his eyes Chris Larabee saw flashes of silver and gold cut across the desert before him in the waxing moonlight and the black, taken by surprise shied. His great weight listing to one side as once solid footing gave way to soft, slippery sand and both horse and rider tumbling off a narrow precipice. The horse landed hard but able to keep his footing but in doing so flung hiss rider off to land with a resounding thud on the rocks and sand of a dry creek bed.
Pain and the sharp exhalation of breath expelled forcefully from lungs was what he felt, what he heard, and then all was still except for a ragged gasp as he tried to force air back into oxygen-starved lungs. As he lay on his back Chris heard the blow of his winded horse and, catching a glimpse of silver on black, he knew Sire stood nearby apparently unharmed.
Still stunned from his sudden dismount Larabee took in a few slow even breaths, his head swimming, a resounding buzzing sounding in his ears. He mentally took stock of his situation. A few cuts and many more bruises but once his head stopped spinning and he could get to his feet he would remount his horse then make camp until first light and Cameron, finding the black clad lunatic no longer in pursuit, would either hole up or continue on picking his way more carefully through the darkness. Either way the chase was ended.
Larabee's head slowly stopped whirling but the buzzing in his ears remained and his horse suddenly bolted up and out of the wash and into the dark. As he groggily tried to sit up a sharp pain shot through his cheek and something quite heavy pulled down on skin and muscle. A second pain shot through his hand as he lifted it to tear at the weight that hung from his face. He grabbed the thick object and pulled hard flinging it as far away from him as possible the skin on his cheek tearing open painfully. Two more piercing pains flashed hotly, one on his lower back and the other on his right thigh.
Unable to utter a sound the buzzing in his ears became a roar and the very earth beneath him moved as rattlesnakes that had just hours before been sunning themselves lazily along the rocks of the dry creek began undulating over the sand and rocks drawn in their night blindness to his heat and movement. Scrambling to his feet Chris scrabbled up the side of the wash on his hands and knees and, once free of the snake pit, knelt on the hard ground.
He panted laboriously as his anger and his fear rose, foaming and bubbling out of his mouth along with venom and blood from fangs struck so deeply into his cheek that they cut through to his tongue. Death would not be swift but it would be decidedly sure and he could hear his own scream carry for miles across the desert as he bellowed in anger to curse the day he'd been born. Pitching face first into the sand he could also hear the yipping of the coyotes that had spooked his horse but their night song suddenly ceased as the howl of a lone wolf cut the night. It was a big one and close by and Sire whinnied in fear.
The sharp jingle of tack told Chris the horse remained close but was ready to bolt yet again. Unable to rise, the hapless gunman could only turn his head, rubbing sand into the gaping wound on his cheek, and vomit as the paralyzing poison begin to deaden his limbs. He saw the beginnings of disjointed delusions out of the corner of his eye and he was sorely disappointed. He saw neither his wife smiling and beckoning to him nor his son racing toward him. He did however see a bright light but instead of the Almighty a wizened old man bathed in the glow of a lantern walked up to him with a large wolf in tow. Chris laughed humorlessly at the sight, let out a long breath, closed his eyes slowly and, just before his world ceased to be, heard, "Ah, here you are. The beast showed me the way."
The old man squatted in the dust and spit a stream of tobacco juice off to his side as his gnarled hands reached out to roll the gunman onto his back, Chris' swollen hand coming to rest on his chest. The old man's fingers, crooked with arthritis, his nails long and ragged and caked with dirt grasped the gunman's chin and drew the lantern close. Swollen flesh, mottled purple and yellow, surrounded the two deep wounds on the downed man's cheek and the muscles beneath the taught skin quivered.
"Oh, you were a pretty one, mister. Clever, too, but not so smart as to lay down with serpientes de cascabel." The old one continued to talk as he checked out the fallen man. "Your clothes...the color of mourning...of death. And you wear your gun high up on your hip. A pistolero, I think."
The old man rolled Chris onto his side and shook his head. "I will take you to Señora de las Sombras. She might take pity on you and save your sorry hide. But I'm keeping your gun in case the Lady of the Shadows spares your wretched life and you decide you might want to kill her in return."