Trudging

a short

The desert stretched out in all directions, flat and rocky with rarely a dead tree, let alone a live one. Every weed that could grow was a small bush like thing, covered in dust and almost strangled by the environment. Above the horizon sat a haze in every direction, the constant wind picking up the loose sand and throwing it about. The sun hung within that miasma, a white ball that would soon increase in intensity and bake the world as it rose higher.

Footprints meandered a course across the desert, over brush, and by many rocks, a few of which had been kicked seemingly in spite. The tracks continued on past a man as he trudged, following them through the bleakness. Michael slouched with desperation, not caused by the dreary surroundings, but by something worse. An invisible weight hung on his shoulders, bearing them down, forcing him to slump.

His family was murdered three days ago. His wife and daughter raped then shot, and son’s throat slit from ear to ear. Feet moved of their own accord now, following the tracks before him. His hand moved up in reflex and adjusted his wide hat a little lower as the sun climbed higher. As far as he knew he was not far behind those that he sought. They too traveled by foot, he killed their horses as they were trying to flee. One of them got off a lucky shot though and actually nicked his left knee slowing him for about a day, letting them escape.

Two revolvers rested on his hips held tight by a belt almost full of bullets. They felt light, as if knowing of the coming justice to be dealt and not wanting to slow him. A sneer contorted his face as he thought of what he would do when he finally caught them. He would kill them without mercy, at the least.

A tumble weed flew by yards before him warning of a gust. He grabbed his hat with one hand and braced his long coat with the other, just in time to prevent the wind from ripping his hat free. It didn’t cease at being a gust though, continuing on as a gale instead. Michael peeked from under the brim and witnessed a monstrous wall of sand billowing toward him. He stumbled to his belly as fast as he could and pulled his coat over his head, forced to wait.

Hours passed before the wind let up, but it didn’t simply slow, it stopped dead. He lowered his coat and looked about, his face melted to a look of fear. Throwing his hat off his head to get it out of his view he looked about desperately, but saw no tracks. They were buried and gone forever. He didn’t know what to do, but reach for one of the revolvers.