Setting Sun Chapter 1

The outlaw with the smoking gun on his hip is miles from his point of origin, but approaching his final destination with a fleetness beyond compare.

Way out there, two California hills met at an angle and formed a V against the red western skies. At the convergence of these hills was a red-chested paint mare, whale-eyed and frothing at the bit. On the back of the mare was a man, red in eye and blood, and in the heart of the man was resentment as black as the impending night would be in a few short hours.

The mare slowed to a canter just past the intersection of the hills, as her path pointed to even lower ground. As it was, fresh mud coated her legs up to the hocks, and each stride flecked more onto her undercarriage. A ways back, the wet earth sucked two shoes right off her feet, nails and all. Lower ground meant wetter, muddier, and more hazardous travel, she knew, and hesitated. Certainly, it was of good fortune that the rain had stopped for this ride, but the torrents of the preceding weeks had soaked and softened the ground so fully that each step sank two inches and pulled out with a “squelch.”

The man, however, did not share in his mount’s uncertainty, surer in fact he was than anything he had been before that he needed to finish the ride. Humming like a revved-up truck, he kicked and hee-yahed, flicking the reins to return her to speed.

“Go on, Rio! It’s too late to turn back now!” He urged, white-knuckled at the reins. The fire in his veins burned through him, as though anger alone could propel him through the evening. “This is the last thing I’ll ever need you to do!”

Rio, instead, whipped her head to the left so suddenly that the reins burned the man’s hand; not that he could feel it in his adrenaline-fueled state. She turned her body to follow suit, then nervously stamped, bouncing and retreating slowly backward.

The rider yelped and tried to resume control, grasping at the reins.

“Girl, what’s wrong? You’re acting like you’ve seen a damned reaper!” He leaned forward, the horn of the saddle pressing at his stomach, to pat her neck in an attempt to soothe.

Her eyes, blue as the sky hadn’t been for a week at least, blinked rapidly, turning to focus one on the sight in front of her. Ramon, her rider, saw nothing but bushes and rocks. He continued to attempt urging her on as the fading light of the setting sun cast gold shadows on the pair. As Ramon clicked his tongue and pressed his thighs against her, she snorted, nostrils flaring, electricity crackling in the air.

Ramon supposed she sensed a storm or predatory animal approaching, but before he could react, Rio reared, letting loose a deafening whinny, kicking her hooves out and slinging mud forward. Ramon hardly had time to think, pressing his toes into his stirrups and leaning into her neck to keep his balance. Just as she returned to the ground, she thrust down her head, yanking the reins from Ramon’s hands completely this time. Bucking wildly, neighing less like a horse and more like a screaming banshee, she twisted and kicked up her heels.

The reins flew upwards over her head, out of Ramon’s reach, so he took hold of the horn instead. As he reached for her mane for balance, she twisted mid-air, and the rider lurched sideways. One boot dislodged from a stirrup, and with limbs flailing he was thrown sideways over the saddle into the mud, one leg still above him in the other stirrup, his hat in the air.

He freed himself and quickly rolled away from the flying hooves — it would be terribly ironic to die of hoof-based trauma after what he had been through. In the roll, he coated every inch of himself in wet, sticky mud.

When he looked up again, lifting his torso up on his elbows to see, Rio had turned tail, riding west toward the setting sun faster even than he had ridden her to this point.

Ramon blinked and panted. Then shivered. Then he thought for a moment, still panting. Then, slowly, he loosed a dark chuckle. When the sun rose this morning, he had little, but he had a vision of hope for the future. Now, with the flash of a white tail, he saw his last and most trusted friend sprinting away into the sunset. Alone eternally, coated in mud, miles from anywhere.

Ramon picked up his formerly black, now brown, hat and returned the mud-caked article to his head, then patted his jacket and belt to take stock of what he had left. He sighed in relief to find he still had his revolver, a canteen, and about three thousand dollars folded in his pockets. He would continue the journey alone. After all, what else besides money, water, and arms does a man need?

As he traveled, he wondered what it was that scared the horse, and if it would come for him.