Flies swarmed around the remains of the man’s carcass; the buzzing sound of their tiny wings magnified in the flat emptiness of the scorching desert. He had been dead for days and what was left of his rotting flesh – that which the vultures had not torn away – had begun to putrefy in the sweltering heat of the relentless sun.
As Cheyenne O’Brien stumbled to the top of a nearby sand dune, she could see the dark outline of the man’s decaying body and the tracks in the sand where he had dragged himself the last ten feet. She knelt down on one knee to rest for a moment, and tried to remember exactly how long she had been tracking Masters. As near as she could figure, it had been three years. The closest she had come to catching him had been two weeks ago, arriving in town just hours after he had left. She had been in the badlands ever since.
Her horse had given out early that morning, and although it had nearly broken her heart, she had been forced to leave the poor beast to die on the burning desert floor. Cheyenne had been unable to put the horse out of its misery. She couldn’t waste the bullet on her dying mare; she must save all her ammunition for the showdown which lay ahead. And now, as Cheyenne stared at the body of the man who had just hours before been her prey, she realized that her final confrontation had been stolen from her by the desolate wasteland itself.
She licked her bleeding lips in a futile attempt to moisten them, then pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and approached the man. The sight of his garish silver spurs and black snakeskin hatband made her frown. Masters must have considered himself quite a dandy.
Cheyenne pulled the gun from her holster and aimed it at the man’s lifeless body.
“This one’s for my horse, you bastard,” she hissed. “Too bad she’s not here to see it.”
Cheyenne laughed – the high-pitched cackle of someone walking on the edge – then pulled the hammer back and cocked the gun.
“After I shoot ya’, I’m gonna’ skin ya’ like a snake! Then I’m gonna’ grind what’s left of your sorry ass right into the dust! Ashes to ashes – ass to dust,” she laughed again.
Cheyenne took a straight bead on the back of the man’s head and tried to steady her aim. That’s when she noticed the black rose tattoo on the back of his left hand.
“Wait a minute,” she mumbled. “Masters ain’t got no tattoo.”