The sun gets lower over Deseret. Soon, it's gone. Now the crickets sing. In the softwood woods, owls hoot.
Still, Marshall is on patrol. He's got the dirt bike in granny-low. A great spotlight shines from the front of the vehicle. Alas, the only thing it ever spotlights, for clicks, are the thick, tall softwood trees.
Marshall still isn't sure how the trees here get so big. The land that surrounds this wood is the Chihuahua desert...and he can't say that the average annual rainfall in this forest is much more impressive. He's pretty sure local meteorologists can't, either.
Sometimes, Marshall wonders what Thor Odinson would be like, as a Deseret Marshal... But then, it's probably bad enough that the Deseret regime has as many Mormons running it as it does. (Not that Thor was ever a Mormon... Even so, a lot of Mormons have Norse ancestors.)
Onward Marshall drives, through the woods. On much, his headlight shines. Alas, none of it looks like a Puebloan. Not even one of the piñon trunks is sculpted into a wooden Indian...
From up in the trees, an arrow flies past his head. Nearby, it sticks into a tree.
Marshall stops the bike, grabs a battle rifle, and dismounts. He creeps around, and peers into the trees, for the source of that daring arrow. (He does NOT mean that as a compliment.)
All around Marshall, a fog rises from the ground. He doesn't notice. He's too busy scanning the treetops for that Puebloan rogue...
He turns around...and sees it...by not seeing it. His motorbike is gone. He's got no idea where he is.
Marshall swears, and opens the action in his rifle. He runs around, looking for the motorbike. With luck, a bear won't find him before he finds the motorbike. He keeps a whistle around his neck close, in case he gets close enough to civilization to blow for help.
For miles, he only sees piñons, piñons everywhere. This is starting to look bad...
Some of the Rockies rise out here. Marshall's travels take him into ravines in their sides. Alas, Marshall usually doesn't have any way of knowing that he's wandered into a potential dead-end until it's too late. By then, the walls have risen all around him. At least the piñons have gotten shorter.
Marshall hears something coming. He keeps his rifle close, and hides behind a rock, waiting for the worst to present itself...
It's a black bear. She's picked up Marshall's trail, no doubt. Shit; now Marshall will HAVE to use this ammo to protect himself. But then, if it's that easy...
Trying not to make too much noise, Marshall turns the action of his rifle back on, and reloads it. He freezes, and listens.
She's frozen too. She sniffs the air, and looks around. With luck, Marshall's spooked her.
He has. She barrels off, and growls. Marshall sighs with relief. That one was WAY too close.
High above, the moon is in the sky. Wraith-like clouds move all across its lit surface, adding an eerie face to it.
Rifle cocked, Marshall continues to seek out his dirt bike. God-forbid if he never finds it. Marshall doesn't believe in Jehovah, but...he has a hard time understanding why he'd so indifferently forsake one of Deseret's Marshals...
From atop a rock nearby, a cougar stalks Marshall. She's in heat. Her stomach growls, too. She's got her sights set on Marshall.
She pounces. Marshall doesn't stand a chance. It hurts a lot; her claws, her teeth, and her weight.
As Marshall bleeds out and loses consciousness, he sees the cougar get stuck with many, many arrows. She's big; it takes that much to take her down. Those are NOT Marshal bullets. They're not even bullets. Marshall does NOT have good feelings, as he passes out from his injuries...
As the sun rises over the Chihuahua wild, water falls from an alpine waterfall. The local piñon forest has been mixed up with more than a few deciduous species. Some of the leaves, and grass blades, glimmer like emeralds.
Some of this grass, even, glimmers like turquoise. It's blue grama grass. New Mexico breeds just as much of it as it does people. The same goes for two-needle piñons and turquoise stones.
In the river, cutthroat trout swim around. They seem at-home...and numerous. New Mexico breeds a lot of them, too.
Nearby, huts have been sculpted out of mud. They're Puebloan huts. This...seems like an unlikely spot to find them. But then, who wouldn't rather live here, than in the Chihuahua desert?
All over white bedding in such a hut, Marshall recovers. He's still asleep...but waking. He moans...and flinches, each time he cracks one of his cougar wounds. This is more unbearable than that one time he got shot while helping Mary protect a red-handed witness...
His eyes open. As they do, he soon finds himself looking into the feminine brown eyes...of a Puebloan chick. She's attending to him...it seems. If she's not trying to seduce him, Marshall's soul sure isn't old enough to figure out how not.
Marshall's got a tattoo of a Mormon trumpet on his arm. With luck, she's too gullible to know what it means...