Those last few feet seemed like miles to Jake as he scrambled over the hard sun-baked earth towards the water hole. His skin was browned, brittle like leather and his cracked lips looked like open sores that sat upon his bruised face. It had been five days since they left him for dead. Beaten him half senseless and then just rode away—abandoned him without a horse, a gun or water. Left him to face certain death. They'd taken his gold which he supposed was the reason they'd done for him in the first place.

They'd been careless, though and left a small cooking pot, which had been discarded after ransacking his belongings. It was of no obvious use, insignificant to most men, but Jake was experienced in the ways of the desert.

For the first day he had been largely unable to move. His battered muscles screamed red-hot agony when he tried to lift himself to his feet but over the duration of painful hours he had managed to scoop out a hole in the hard ground with his bare hands, ignoring the agony as he tore the tips of his fingers. In the hole he placed his pot and arranged some small stones around the edge so there was a drop off, forming a dew trap of sorts. Then he drifted in and out of feverish consciousness while his body slowly responded to the healing process.

He awoke that first morning and lifted the pot from the ground. There was some water there, barely a drop but enough to wet his lips; a small speck that made all the difference between life and death. Then on unsteady feet he stumbled over to the shade of the small cave and slept away the sun.

That night he started walking, trying to get down out of the hills and onto the open desert beyond. He knew his chances were slim; without food, water or a weapon to protect himself he was at the mercy of the harsh Arizona landscape and the Apache. But he'd had several years of experience in this hellhole. He had his pot and the determination to escape this dire situation, find the two men, and retrieve that which they had stolen.

Jake Masters was not a man who would die easily. At first each step had been agony but gradually his muscles numbed so that the pain became a dull thud. And after that first day he stopped, formed his dew trap and then slept, managing to capture a little of that life saving liquid. On the third day he stumbled across an injured jackrabbit. It was a scrawny creature, its back legs broken in some mishap or other. He killed it without emotion and took the first bite before he had even cooked it. He almost gagged on the warm blood but forced himself to swallow and felt some strength returning.

That night he built a small fire and ate the most delicious rabbit he had ever tasted. He set his dew trap and slept soundly. The ground became as comfortable as some plush hotel bed.

And now here he was, falling over the bluff and almost rolling down the banking to the water hole. He started giggling as he tried to catch his feet, and he tumbled and turned before landing painfully but didn't care. He went to the hole and buried his head below the cool clear water and felt it at once invigorating him.

He drank freely and lay on his back, the sun now feeling that much cooler as it dried the water upon his face and hair. He decided to rest here for the remainder of the day and then set off again come nightfall. There were less than six miles to travel to the town of Dry River and he knew now that he could make it. He was weak, starved to a pile of bones, but the water made all the difference.

It was a little before dawn when he reached town and went straight to Maggie's house and knocked upon the door, shouting out who he was so he wouldn't scare her. She opened the door within minutes, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders and she gasped when she saw him.

"Jake." She took him in her arms, sensing that he was as weak as a kitten. "What's happened to you?"

"I'll be okay," he said, allowing her to lead him inside. "I need some food and a little sleep and I'll be dandy."

"You don't look like you'll ever be dandy again," Maggie retorted and led him over to a soft chair. She eased him down into it. "Why you're a mess of cuts and bruises and blood and dirt."

Jake managed a slight smile. "Don't fuss."

"I'll put coffee on and gets some eggs going," she said. "You rest for a while. You can tell me what happened later." Jake nodded and almost immediately fell into the thick mire of much needed sleep.

Later Jake smiled, feeling better than he had in days, as he rubbed his stomach after a third round of bacon and eggs. "Just like ma used to make," he said.

Maggie placed another cup of steaming coffee before him and then scowled at her younger brother. "Now Jake Masters," she said sternly which actually reminded Jake of their late departed mother. "You can tell me what happened. You vanish for almost two years and then you turn up looking like you've gone up against a grizzly bear."

"I have in a way," Jake said. "Two nasty no-good cheating grizzlies."

He explained as best he could. Telling how he'd spent the best part of eighteen months prospecting far north in the rapidly opening gold fields. He'd not quite struck the riches he had hoped but come away with a few thousand dollars worth of nuggets; enough to make their lives considerably more comfortable.

He'd met up with the two drifters in the desert and seeing they were starved, offered them food and water, a place to bed down and rest their horses. They had repaid him by jumping him when he was asleep, kicking him almost to death, stealing his horse and all his belongings, including the gold he carried in his saddlebags. Had they known the gold was there? He didn't think so—they had just been bad men and not content with his aid. They wanted everything he had—the food, water and weapons he carried. And no doubt it had crossed their minds that he would have some money in his saddlebags, but the gold would have been a surprise to them.

"You could have died out there," Maggie said.

"But I didn't," Jake countered. "I know the country. I was lucky."

"Describe these men to me."

Jake did so. As far as he could remember they were both older than he was, perhaps in their early forties. They were the complete opposite of each other in that one was short and bulky and the other was tall and razor thin. Both sported thick beards and long unruly hair like drifters, men who made their living in the saddle.

"Two men like that rode in here three days ago," Maggie said and then wished she hadn't when she saw the look that crossed her brother's face.

Jake stood up and the days of hardship seemed to fall from him. "Where did they go?"

"Now Jake," Maggie said. "You're in no shape to go out looking for a pair of bandits.

Jake grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her closer towards him. "Where did they go?"

Maggie shook free of his grip and went to the window, peering outside. She knew if she told him, he'd hightail it out of there immediately and run the men down. He'd search every inch of the town until he found them. Not that he'd have to look hard—men of that sort always hung around in saloons.

"Where?" Jack insisted and Maggie knew that look, she had seen it so many times over the years. A look of grit that would not be swayed.

"They're still here," she said. "Staying at the saloon. I've not seen much of them but I've heard folks saying they've been splashing money around like there's no tomorrow."

"Guess they can afford to," Jake said, and took the Spencer rifle down from its place on the wall, loaded it and left by the front door.

Immediately upon entering The Dry River Saloon, Jake noticed the smaller of the two men seated at the far table with his back to him, playing poker with three other men he knew as town residents. The other man, the taller of the two, was nowhere to be seen.

Jake raised his gun and aimed it at the man. "Quint," he said, as that was the name the man had introduced himself by. "You've stolen from me and I want it back."

The man turned around, surprise on his face and he seemed even more shocked to see Jake standing there, a rifle aimed squarely on him.

"I...I.." Quint was unable to find words.

"You thought I was dead," Jake said and pointed to the stack of money on the table in front of the man. "I'll take that," he said. "It'll be a start toward what you stole."

"I won this fair and square," Quint protested.

"I don't want to kill you." Jake said. "I just want my gold back."

Quint looked towards the other card players and then around the saloon. He was alone, there was no one to help him. Everyone was watching Jake, waiting for him to make a move.

"Where's my gold?" Jake asked again and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"Wait." Quint stood up, holding his arms out in front of him. "I'll—"

Jake didn't hear the rest of his words before a blow came down hard on the back of his head and his legs buckled beneath him. He fell to the floor and just before blackness overtook him, he saw the tall thin man standing over him, a pistol in his hand.

"Next time don't talk. Just shoot," the old man said, and knelt over Jake as consciousness returned.

Jake cradled his head in his hands. He had one almighty headache as if the entire 7th Calvary was riding through his skull. "Sure," he said and then tried to lift himself up. "Give me room."

The old man stood aside and scratched the back of his head. "You're a tough one, sure enough," he said.

"Where did they go?" Jake asked.

"They rode off in a hurry. Straight into the desert. If the sun don't get them then maybe the Apaches will."

The desert. They wouldn't be able to keep up their speed for too long without riding their horses to death, and their progress would be slow and cautious since they'd have the Indians to contend with. He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious but it couldn't have been too long. Jake would go after them but not directly. He had to rest up. What with his ordeal in the desert and now this latest mishap he was in no fit state to ride let alone confront the two thieving varmints known as Quint and Evans.

Sunup would be soon enough. On unsteady feet he made his way out of the saloon and back to his sister's place.

Jake was ready before the first rays of the sun started to illuminate the darkness of the receding night. He carried the Spencer in the saddle boot and wore a pair of Colt Frontier pistols tied down, gunslinger fashion—not that he had ever killed anyone, nor did he particularly want to kill either of the two men. But he would if it came to it...that much he knew.

He wasn't sure how long he would be hunting the two men and so he took two large canteens, a week's worth of coffee, a bag of jerky, sack of beans and his bedroll.

He didn't wake his sister before leaving as he couldn't face the inevitable protesting and fussing, and he quietly walked his horse away from the house before mounting up and setting the beast into a steady trot.

He rested his horse around noon and felt that he had covered at least ten miles since leaving town. There had been no sign of any Indians and he had no trouble picking up on the men's trail. They were making no attempt to cover their tracks and Jake felt that they were not too far ahead of him. They were riding north towards Tucson but that was at least a three-day ride through some of the most inhospitable desert on the face of the Earth. And the Apache in these parts were anything but peaceable and had been whipped up into a deadly storm by the army's policy of shifting them onto reservations.

Jake sat upon a rounded stone and took the Bull Durham from his pocket. He made himself a cigarette and sat there smoking while his horse chewed on what little greenery it could find. The sun was high in the sky and the day, although sweltering, had not yet reached its hottest point. His face was still blistered from his recent escapade in the desert and he felt the heat all the more as his already charred skin started to burn.

He ignored his discomfort and spent the best part of an hour resting his horse before mounting the beast and setting off again in pursuit of his gold. Within hours he sighted them ahead of him. He kept his distance, remaining just out of sight and when they stopped to make camp for the night he did likewise.

That night long after darkness he tethered his horse to a gnarled tree and made his way on foot to the men's camp. He reached them quickly and stayed out of sight on a small hill above. They were obviously worried about Indians and had pitched camp in a natural valley. They were both asleep which was not wise and spoke of their ignorance of the ways of the desert. One of them should have kept watch. This negligence would be their undoing.

Jake crept into the camp, rifle in hand, and was able to get within feet without disturbing them. He looked around, trying to locate his gold but each man slept on his saddlebag, using it as a pillow and there was no other obvious place it could be concealed

He decided to have a little fun, and carefully released one of their horses, leading him away into the darkness. Once Jake reached the top of the hill, he took one final look down at the sleeping men and let out a blood curdling yell. He hoped it would sound like an Indian to the two greenhorns. Then he galloped away into the darkness and didn't stop until he reached his own camp. There he set the men's horse free, shooing it away into the desert. After collecting his belongings, he climbed back onto his own horse.

It was pretty much the same for the next three days. Each day he trailed behind them at a safe distance and each night he would sneak close to their camp and play on their nerves, uttering strange yells and bird noises. One night he even fired into their camp, hitting the coffee pot, sending sparks into the sky. The fire hissed as the bitter coffee spilt into the flames. Then he sat in silence, listening to the men arguing and cursing the unseen Indians. The afternoon following that incident he made a large fire and set off smoke signals into the air, laughing as he thought of the terrified men riding two up on their only horse. They would be reading entire novels out of the smoke and all would speak of their doom.

Now as he lay in darkness listening to the men once again argue he knew the mood had changed. They had but one horse between them, a limited amount of water and as far as they were concerned there was a band of Indians tormenting them. They were obviously at breaking point. They had gone days without any real sleep and it was beginning to show. Over these last few days, Jake noticed them gradually becoming more and more nervy. And now they twitched like a pair of epileptic rattlers.

He watched as Quint, obviously thinking a man alone had a better chance of escape, crept up behind Evans, who was peering into the darkness, and coldly shot him in the back. Evans went down with nary a groan; dead instantly as the bullet severed his spine and chewed up his guts.

It was then that Jake stood up. The death of Evans, the casual way Quint had done it, shocked him. Both men had intended for him to die when they left him in the desert and it was only the fact that there had been so many people in the saloon that saved him that second time. Still, he wasn't a killer.

He wanted his gold and he was going to get it, without further bloodshed if possible.

"Stay where you are," he yelled, pointing the rifle at Quint. "Drop your piece."

Shocked, Quint started up at him. "You?" he said as Jake came down from the banking and stood over the dead body of Evans. "Thought we'd shaken you off."

"Not likely." Jake glanced at the dead man. "Where's my gold?"

Quint was still holding his weapon but it was directed at the ground, he knew he had little chance against a rifle, already cocked and aimed. "What's left's in the saddlebags on the horse."

"Drop your gun," Jake prompted. "And get it." He tightened up his aim and his finger squeezed gently on the trigger. "I so much as twitch and this thing goes off."

"Don't shoot," Quint said and tossed his gun aside. "I'll get your gold."

"Do it," Jake said, firmly.

Quint went over to the horse and pulled a sack from the saddlebags. He tossed it on the ground where it broke open, spilling its contents, Jake could see that most of his gold was there together with a considerable amount of the money they had won at gambling. He'd consider that his too; it would pay for the rigmarole they had put him through.

"See," Quint said. "And there's more." He reached back into the saddlebags and pulled out a Derringer. He fired, taking Jake off guard but he missed and Jake dove to the ground. The small slug bounced of the ground with a spark and a puff of sandy earth.

Quint tossed the single shotgun aside and ran, snatching his Colt from the ground. He turned and aimed at Jake but he didn't get to fire before the heavy slug from the Spencer opened up the side of his head. He was thrown some three feet backwards and came down on a rock, snapping his back with a sickening crack, but he was already dead and cared little of this latest mishap.

Jake shook his head and stood up. He looked at the two corpses and felt a shudder run the length of his own back. He hadn't wanted to kill but he had been left with no choice. It was him or Quint.

He scooped up the gold and money and placed it back into the sack.

Then he took out his Bull Durham and made himself a smoke.

"Shame," he said and started piling rocks and earth onto the bodies. They had done him wrong but he didn't want to leave them to the vultures. And he worked hard in collecting rocks and scooping tufts of earth with that ever-so-useful cooking pot he carried. Afterwards Jake stood over the makeshift graves and said a silent prayer. Then he mounted up and rode back towards Dry River.

- END -

Copyright © 2008 Gary Dobbs writing as Jack Martin