August 18, 1911

Hot sun blaring down. Check. Dirty, dusty desert floor beneath her. Check. Horrible headache. Definitely check. Queer squawking noise...Check.

A dark arm, beaten by the unforgiving desert sunlight, slowly raised to cover the squinting eyes of one of the West's more well known faces. Santana Lopez was wanted in three areas for some crime or another. She'd kind of lost count for lack of caring. Running around and away from accusations and threats had always been exciting up until now.

Something about a gunshot wound treated only by sunlight and a very persistent vulture in the middle of nowhere changes that opinion pretty quickly.

"Get the hell...off of me you dumb...shit." She croaked out hoarsely as she swatted away at the giant bird. She grunted as she used one hand to push herself upright, noticing the dark, stained sand now tinged like rust beneath her. How long had she been out?

Spotting her well-worn Stetson, she picked it up and placed it, with a determined tug, back on her head of mussed black hair. Favoring her right side, she glanced down, noting that the bullet must have merely grazed her just below the ribs. Whatever pain and exhaustion she had succumbed to must have left her vision blackened out.

She squinted, the rising pain in her side growing as she rose to her feet. She offered her knees a carefree slap to free her trousers of what dust had collected. Her back was stiff, her side was painfully throbbing and presumably on its way to a nice infection, and her head was positively brimming with ache; but, as she looked out over her surroundings, a smile, a victorious smirk settled on her full lips.

Before her, laid the bodies of the supposed lawmen, horses, and bounty hunters she had fought off however long before she passed out.

She stumbled over shakily to one of their bodies, bending over gingerly to find what resources she could from their bodies. Careful not to bump into the nearby cactuses, she fished around in his pockets and pouches. Extra ammo, food, money, it would all be put to good use if she had a say in the matter.

"Just as crooked as I could ever hope to be, Friend." She gave the pale body one last half-hearted kick as she walked away in search to procure a horse, or something that wasn't her tired legs, to carry her to the nearest town.

~.~.~

This wasn't the first time she had played dead on the side of the road to get what she needed. Honestly, though, it was a fantastic respite, lying down on the cold ground. A bleeding wound can really take it out of risky in the chilled night air amongst the numerous coyotes and cougars that littered the desert, the beautiful Bay she was riding now proved well worth that risk.

Some people were really just too good hearted for their own good. They were begging to be taken advantage of: survival of the fittest was the only motto sensible folk could adhere to. And if she knew anything about herself, Santana knew she was born with 3 God given gifts: good looks, a deceivingly kind face and a sharp (but quick) tongue. She would have been a fool not to use them.

She almost felt bad about ridding the world of a practiced doctor, but both his medicine bag and his horse were far too valuable and vital to her to pass up. "Poor little bastard," she smoothed her hands over the dark vest she now wore. Her old, soiled shirt was somewhere back with the doctor's body. He just happened to be on the short and skinny side, it was like God Himself were smiling down on her.

Medicine, new clothes, and gauze for her wounds. Fortune favors the sick and twisted at heart.

But boy, was riding with an injury really tuckering her out. She heaved a few breaths in and out, realizing she really wasn't close to any city. At least the scenery was a welcomed change, from cold desert to cold plains of open grass. She squinted under the moonlight, though bright on it's own, finding it impossible to see much of anything.

Then, there, she caught it. A flicker of light. How far away or whether she was dreaming, she wasn't sure. But salvation came in the form of many things to Santana, namely: women, whiskey, and candlelight.

So maybe that last one was a hasty amendment, but no matter. The point being, she'd found a place that would hopefully take her in. Granted, so long as they'd not been to the general store in a while to see any of the wanted posters.

"Rather dashing," she'd said the first time she'd seen them hanging here and there around numerous towns. The little bit of fame and notoriety was down right stimulating. Alas, Santana had grown accustomed to wearing a dark kerchief around her face to hide her identity. However, nothing screams, "I'm wanted by the law" quite like hiding half of your face; and in her current predicament, she just couldn't take chances.

She reached a gloved hand down to her wound, now soaking through her new clothes with blood. Riding a horse at such a speed must have aggravated it. Slowly but surely, the copper horse carried her as she slumped lower and lower upon the saddle.

"This is how it's all ending, Jed." She gestured towards the horse, "I can call you Jed, right?" If Jed could have acknowledged her at all, he made no move to whine or even snort her way.

It didn't matter. Santana Lopez didn't need a horse to validate her. "I, Santana Lopez, dead by a flesh wound, aged 20 and 1 years, and for no man to partake in the spoils and rewards of my death." A laugh gurgled up her throat until she winced in pain. Her vision was swimming again, having never recovered from her first black out.

"This is really the end." She repeated her sentiments low and to herself. Yet now, there was an edge of panic and sadness, void of her normal bitterness. Before she realized it, she was all but laying on the horse. It whinnied under the weight of her body cast upon its haunches. "I know I'm heavy but," she coughed abruptly, clutching even harder to her side. Maybe there was more wrong with her than just a flesh wound, "I know I'm heavy." She echoed tiredly, resigned, letting her arms fall limply at the sides of the horse's neck. She was heavy with so much more than the body weight slowly going dead. Sin was also quite the burden to shoulder.

It was as if the horse knew exactly where to go, driven by someone with Santana's best interests in mind, and that surely wasn't herself. Just as the farm from whence the candlelight was shining was coming into view, Santana felt her eyelids droop without cause to stop them from closing entirely.

The horse took soft footsteps, hooves digging into the soft earth with every step. Santana felt her weight being jostled from one side to the other, trying without really trying to hold onto the reigns, the mane, the ears, anything to stay upright. And through all her fumbling, that's when she heard it.

Like a toy people give to infants to hold their interest, a distinct rattle echoed through the cold air.

"This is really the end." And just like that, her body was catapulted from the horse's back and down to the grassy plains with a painful thud. The horse, spooked by the snake, now running to God only knows where, could faintly be heard as her hearing began to fail her.

Knocked out of breath and rendered completely blacked out laid Santana Lopez, aged 20 and 1 years beneath a tattered wooden sign labeled "PIERCE RANCH".