Gunner laughed. "You must think I'm a fool."
"You got my word. The Judge ain't keen on us killing folks within sight of the town walls. Says it's bad for business. Come one, Rider. Give us the bike, live to fight another day."
Gunner rested the back of his head against the Steed, weighing his options. He looked at the revolver in his hand. A skull encircled by runic symbols was engraved in the bone grip, along with a single word stamped into the backstrap: FUEGO. He sighed and chucked it five yards away from the bike so they could see it hit the dust.
"That's a good start, Rider. But I'm guessing you got at least one more of those on your person. Why don't you go ahead and give that one up too so we can get this over with?"
Gunner shook his head. "Man of your word, huh?"
"A man's only as good as his word, Rider. And you got mine. We ain't gonna kill you."
"Is that right? What's your name? I outta know the name of the man I'm trusting my life to."
"The names Waingrow. Jim Waingrow."
"All right, Waingrow. I'm tossing my gun."
He pulled his second revolver, fashioned as a twin to the first, only with the name AZUFRE engraved. For a second, he stared at it.
"What the hell. You always find your way back."
Wincing, he tossed it beside the other handgun. "All right, I'm unarmed. Nobody shoot."
"Let's see them hands, then," Waingrow said.
Bracing himself, Gunner stood, hands high in the air. When no shots fired, he scooted sideways, limping on his injured leg.
Waingrow edged upward, gesturing with his rifle. "All right, Rider. Stay right there. We gotta check you for valuables and such."
The outlaws rose from the ditch, keeping their rifles aimed at Gunner. Waingrow led them, twirling his revolver before slipping it in its holster. His skin was brown as pine bark, his jaw square as a brick, his teeth clenched in a hard grin. Stooping down, he retrieved Gunner's handguns.
"Well, looky here. A pair of top-break, long-barreled autorevolvers, personally engraved. Looks custom. Betcha these set you back a pretty penny, Rider."
Gunner didn't answer. Two rifle barrels pointed at his face while another bandit searched him. Her face was crisscrossed with pale scars, and pale blond hair hung from her hat, braided into a long ponytail. Pulling out the satchel inside his jacket, she looked at Waingrow. "Got a bag full of gold bulls, boss."
Waingrow smiled, slipping Gunner's revolvers in his belt. "Well, ain't he a gift that keeps on giving? How'd you get all this loot, Rider?"
Gunner gave him a hard look. "The same way you just did, I guess."
Waingrow chuckled. "I bet you did, at that. Well, much as I'd like to take on another bandito, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to trust a man I just robbed. So I'm gonna hafta let my gang take you for a little ride. Been nice doing business with you."
Gunner smirked. "Thought you were a man of your word."
Waingrow raised an eyebrow. "Oh, they're not gonna kill you, Rider. Just gonna beat you to a pulp and leave you out in the middle of nowhere. I figure the heat and the vultures will do the rest."
They dumped him in the dust, battered and semi-conscious. He lay there, tasting blood and dirt, hearing their laughter and hooting fade away as they drove off into a fiery sunset. The sky was crimson; the heat still merciless even as evening fell. A lizard scuttled across the sand, stopping to peer with crusty, unblinking eyes before continuing its trek. Gunner dragged himself across the stony ground; teeth gritted from the effort of moving through so much pain. He made it three long yards before his injuries caught up, yanking him to the darkness. To the flames…
He was there again. Fire all around and smoke so dense, choking him. Searing his lungs. Still, he ran toward the building. His skin blistered, his eyes blurred, tears carving tracks into his sooty face. Raspy laughter echoed around him. When he turned, the figure was barely visible. A silhouette, standing in the middle of the flames as if heat couldn't harm him. As if the fire was his to obey. Crimson lights blazed under the brim of his hat where his eyes should have been. A limp body lay prone in his arms. He extended it to Gunner as if offering a sacrifice, laughing with a sound like gravel raked across concrete. The flames rose higher and higher.
Gunner sat up, gasping for breath, blinking in the grainy light that effused between the window shutters. The room was dim and dusty, poorly furnished, with cracks threading the adobe walls. He lay on a rubber mat on the floor, covered by a threadbare sheet. A medical wrap encircled his torso, feeding accelerators into his bloodstream through nanosensors to quicken the healing process.
Every movement produced a jolt of agony, but he managed to lean over and pick up one of his boots and unscrew the heel. Inside the cavity was a small stack of bullion cards, a jackknife, a couple of cheroots, a pack of matches, and a cylindrical pack of painkillers.
He removed everything, put the knife and bulls in his pocket, and popped the top of the painkillers, dropped two in his mouth, and swallowed them. Gritting his teeth, he stood and picked his shirt off the battered end table, fingering the bullet hole. Glancing at his shoulder, he saw the bullet was removed, and the wound treated and bandaged. The same with the wound in his thigh.
The door creaked open as he buttoned up his shirt. The old preacher walked in with a stack of threadbare clothes, followed by an equally aged woman wrapped in a fringed shawl and her iron-colored hair braided in long pigtails. She carried a bowl of steaming water in her gnarled hands.
The preacher's eyes widened. "What are you doing up, vaquero? You shouldn't even be awake."
"Got places to go," Gunner said, flipping a gold bull on the table. "That's for your hospitality."
"You'll not get far in your shape," the preacher said. "The healing accelerators only work if you're in a state of rest. You need more days, or your wounds will fester."
"My wounds never stop festering, Padre. Figure these won't slow me down much. How did you happen to find me?"
"I followed you. Used the sand cycle you spared. I was headed to the town as well, you see."
Gunner frowned. "Didn't the folks there just try to hang you?"
"Not the folks. The Judge and his men. They didn’t like the message of reckoning that I preached."
"Yeah, people get mighty prickly when you publicly condemn them. Guess you saw the ambush, then."
"Just missed it. When I topped the hill, they were beating you up something bad. I waited until they loaded you up and followed from a distance until they dumped you in the desert. After that, I brought you here. Camilla patched up your wounds and bathed you. Trimmed you up a bit too. She says you looked like a wild man."
The old woman set her bowl on the table and motioned for Gunner to sit in a rickety wooden chair. When he ignored her, she surprised him by placing a firm hand against his chest. Lips compressed, she shook her head and gestured again.
"Siéntese, por favor."
He gave her an amused grin and sat, ruining the moment by wincing in pain. She gave him a knowing nod, tsking as she peeled his shirt back and removed the bandage. Shaking her head, she turned to the bowl of water, breaking a capsule of antiseptic powder and stirring it into the liquid. Dipping a clean rag into the frothing concoction, she dabbed it against his bullet wound. The puckered flesh sizzled.
"Ouch," Gunner said.
The preacher leaned against the wall; his amusement nearly hidden behind his thick white mustaches. "Stings a bit, but it'll patch you up right quick. Camila thought you might be out for a few more hours, but it seems you're not the type with the good sense to know when to rest."