Paco Valdez
BI
You decide to stay where you are and wait in the cool shade under the rock outcropping. You swallow your fear and do your best to calm the heavy beating of your heart. You strain your eyes against the sky until you can at last make out the forms of four riders that begin as one silhouetted mass, but slowly spread out to reveal their numbers.
Part of you wants to get on the horse and ride out as fast as she will carry you, but the rational side of you realizes that doing so would only guarantee that you are spotted. Besides, you tell yourself, It could be anybody riding this way. How can you really know that these riders are Vigilantes? You're just being paranoid, right?
You swallow hard into a throat dryer than the desert around you while the riders come closer. You can no longer doubt who they are. They are Vigilantes, and they are looking for you.
You estimate that they should be upon you within twenty minutes, and while you know you can't hope to outrun them, you're not one to just stand still and wait for death to come.
You get on the mount and give her neck a pat before digging your heels into its flanks. The beast takes off like a burst of lightning, galloping away from the approaching riders. There are four horsemen in all, you muse, like the forerunners of your personal apocalypse.
For a few moments it almost seems as though they don't notice you, and you experience a brief moment of elation. Those moments die quickly and you soon find yourself driving the horse to a futile and ever accelerating speed.
They catch up in no time, or perhaps a long time, it doesn't matter. Time makes no sense now. One moment they are far behind you and now they are nearly upon you. A gun shot rings out from behind you and the mount crumples to the ground with a cry that promises to haunt your dreams forever. That's supposing that you have dreams again.
The horse falls atop you, pinning your leg beneath her weight. It pains you to hear your mount in the throes of death, but what pains you more is the excruciating terror that shoots up your leg and clouds your vision. After some struggling, you manage to pull yourself out from beneath it's considerable weight only to find your leg bent at an odd angle, a jagged edge of bone jutting through your skin.
You are surrounded by four of them. One is the little Mexican you met in the streets.
"Did you think you could run, amigo?" The Mexican says with a touch of arrogance. "You cannot run from the Vigilantes."
You try to say something witty in return but your voice is overcome by a cry of anguish as one of the other men steps on your fractured limb.
"Paco said we are not to kill you, mister," The little Mexican continues, "but who can tell what happens to men in the harsh desert? Maybe we found you all beat up and shot to death, eh?"
He smiles a little arrogant smile that infuriates you to an incomprehensible level. He clicks his fingers and the men rush in with fists like stray dogs to a scrap of food. You black out a few times during the beating, but are kindly awakened by cruel kicks to your broken leg. Just when you think you can't take anymore, they come at you with again.
Eventually they stop and the little Mexican points the barrel of a six shooter at you. "You look like shit," he says to you. His goons laugh.
After you stare at the barrel for what seems like forever, he mercifully pulls the trigger.
The darkness consumes you.
You decide to stay where you are and wait in the cool shade under the rock outcropping. You swallow your fear and do your best to calm the heavy beating of your heart. You strain your eyes against the sky until you can at last make out the forms of four riders that begin as one silhouetted mass, but slowly spread out to reveal their numbers.
Part of you wants to get on the horse and ride out as fast as she will carry you, but the rational side of you realizes that doing so would only guarantee that you are spotted. Besides, you tell yourself, It could be anybody riding this way. How can you really know that these riders are Vigilantes? You're just being paranoid, right?
You swallow hard into a throat dryer than the desert around you while the riders come closer. You can no longer doubt who they are. They are Vigilantes, and they are looking for you.
You estimate that they should be upon you within twenty minutes, and while you know you can't hope to outrun them, you're not one to just stand still and wait for death to come.
You get on the mount and give her neck a pat before digging your heels into its flanks. The beast takes off like a burst of lightning, galloping away from the approaching riders. There are four horsemen in all, you muse, like the forerunners of your personal apocalypse.
For a few moments it almost seems as though they don't notice you, and you experience a brief moment of elation. Those moments die quickly and you soon find yourself driving the horse to a futile and ever accelerating speed.
They catch up in no time, or perhaps a long time, it doesn't matter. Time makes no sense now. One moment they are far behind you and now they are nearly upon you. A gun shot rings out from behind you and the mount crumples to the ground with a cry that promises to haunt your dreams forever. That's supposing that you have dreams again.
The horse falls atop you, pinning your leg beneath her weight. It pains you to hear your mount in the throes of death, but what pains you more is the excruciating terror that shoots up your leg and clouds your vision. After some struggling, you manage to pull yourself out from beneath it's considerable weight only to find your leg bent at an odd angle, a jagged edge of bone jutting through your skin.
You are surrounded by four of them. One is the little Mexican you met in the streets.
"Did you think you could run, amigo?" The Mexican says with a touch of arrogance. "You cannot run from the Vigilantes."
You try to say something witty in return but your voice is overcome by a cry of anguish as one of the other men steps on your fractured limb.
"Paco said we are not to kill you, mister," The little Mexican continues, "but who can tell what happens to men in the harsh desert? Maybe we found you all beat up and shot to death, eh?"
He smiles a little arrogant smile that infuriates you to an incomprehensible level. He clicks his fingers and the men rush in with fists like stray dogs to a scrap of food. You black out a few times during the beating, but are kindly awakened by cruel kicks to your broken leg. Just when you think you can't take anymore, they come at you with again.
Eventually they stop and the little Mexican points the barrel of a six shooter at you. "You look like shit," he says to you. His goons laugh.
After you stare at the barrel for what seems like forever, he mercifully pulls the trigger.
The darkness consumes you.
