Cold Comfort

     The sun rose early during the long, hot, dry summer.  In the desert it cast long, solemn shadows along the ground as the sagebrush caught the first glimmers of light, interrupted by the already deep shadows of the hills where they dared to contradict the flat horizon.  The week -- indeed, the month -- had been dry, and the horse's hooves kicked up small clouds of meek dust with each footfall.  And now with the sun rising on a cloudless day, he promised no relief from the scorching, blazing heat.

     I led him in an easy cant, a fair pace but not rapid.  There was no need to rush.  The nearest town was thirty miles behind me, and a human being can only go so far out into the desert in twenty-four hours, no matter what demons he might be running from.

     In fact, up ahead, that dark spot....  Wasn't that...?  Why, yes, it was.  I smiled tightly to myself.  Good.

     I let the horse continue the easy pace, almost casually approaching the collapsed form.  Even from a mile away, I could see that he was watching me as I rode closer.  I stopped the horse about twenty feet from him; surveying him for a few moments, relishing this.  The vigilante's gunshot hadn't struck true, but it had struck close enough, and the rough bandage around my quarrey's calf attested to having clipped him good.  Had I a hound with me, I suspect that I'd have had no trouble at all finding him.  As it was, there'd been no need; he'd gone into the desert and followed as straight a line as he could, putting as much distance as he could between him and the town... and me.

     I slid off the saddle, taking my time about it.  All the while he watched me.  I took a quick survey of the area; a vulture had begun a slow circle overhead, anticipating fresh carrion soon, but no other animal larger than a field mouse was anywhere nearby.  Good; no need for us to be interrupted.

     I pulled the rifle from it's scabbard beside the saddle, cradling it in my arm as I held the horse's reins in the other hand, stepping closer.  My boots cast up dust in the same manner the horse's hooves had, soft crunching upon the dry, rocky ground.  He looked even worse than I'd hoped; the previous day had taken it's toll on him, between blood loss and thirst.  He'd not survive the day, not without water and that gimp leg.

     And all the while, he watched me with those eyes of his.

     I set myself down on a rock nearby, still in view of him.  "Hello, Francis," I said casually.

     It took him a few moments, and when he spoke his voice was a rouch, gravelly croak.  "Michael...."

     I looked around.  "I almost lost you, you know.  You zigged when I'd thought you'd zagged.  Then I figured you'd follow the dips of the hills, and got onto your trail again.  And here we are."

     He gave a rattling cough.  "Gonna finish it?"

     "I think I rightly should.  Don't you?  Come into town after God knows how many years, try to be chummy again, then show you've not grown a bit in that time.  Hurt me, hurt my friends and family, hurt my love.  Damn luck that vigilante thought you'd killed his brother."

     He groaned.  "Didn't... didn't kill nobody."

     "Oh, of course you didn't, Frances.  You're a God-fearin' man, ain't'cha?  Well, frankly I figure you've killed before, you're the type.  No, that's not why I came out here."  I stretched a little, pulling my canteen from my belt.  "Whew.  Gonna be a hell of a day!  Literally.  Like the devil hisself is wagin' war on the land."  I took a wet, noisy gulp from it, and sealed it again.

     At the sight of the water I could see him lick his lips.  He almost tried to pull himself upright, but got barely a few inches off the ground before collapsing back.  "Jus' do it, you bastard," he grunted.

     I snorted.  "'Just do it, you bastard.'  Who's the bastard here, Francis?  I was livin' my life, gettin' things back in order, gettin' myself back in order.  Then you come back and throw everything dizzy again.  You're a no-good arsehole.  You were a scum-sucking dog back then, an' you haven't changed a bit.  The world would be better off without you.  An' I think that by now you know the whole town feels that way."

     Francis closed his eyes.  "Then get it o'er with, Michael.  Ain't got nothin' to live for."

     "No, you damn fool.  You don't got anythin' to live for."  I stood, taking a few steps closer, my shadow cast over him.  "You tried to wreck my life again, and I've got every reason to kill you here and now, an' not even the sheriff is goin' to fault me."

     The canteen hit the ground in front of him, startling his eyes open.  It sat there, the strap that had been accross my shoulders now in a small tempting pile beside it.  "Thirty miles back the way you came," I said neutrally but not flatly.  "If you're careful with the water it'll last you till nightfall, and then it'll be cool enough to go the rest of the way."

     I could see his eyes flickering between me and the canteen, and slowly, weakly, he moved his hands to take hold of that life-giving promise, seeing if I would pull it away at the last second, like he had pulled respite away from others so many times in the past.  But this time hope was in one's grasp, and he took hold of the canteen.  Reinvigorated, he managed to pull himself up, and fumbled with the canteen's top, getting it open and managing to not spill any of the precious, precious water upon the ground that was even more thirsty than he was.

     I turned and put the rifle back into it's scabbard on the horse, and began to pull myself up onto the mare.  with a gasping breath, filled with life again, he weakly let the canteen lower from his lips, resting it on the ground beneath a bowed head.  "Damn you," he whispered.  Then again, his voice stronger and at the same time breaking with tears.  "Damn... you... to hell.  For saving me."
Then my lips broke into a smile, tight and satisfied, and I swung up onto the horse, giving Francis one last look before I turned the horse around and began the journey back to the town.