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The high-stepping mare balked, tossing a very pleased but weary mind, and whinnied a protest as the dust-covered gambler stood saturated in his stirrups and surveyed the forbidding landscape before him. 100 mls.... Maybe more, he thought. A burned and blasted desert...filled up with hostiles, and no drinking water but what he carried in the two canteens slung over his saddle horn. A wide-open inside right if ever there is one, he cursed angrily, knowing there is no choice but to sketch to it regardless of the odds. Only an hour behind him were nine, maybe 10, chosen guns. The gambler gritted his pearly whites and roweled the lathered flanks of the mare. She reared as of this latest outrage, plunged, and then resigned herself to the rider's choice. Gingerly, hesitantly, she stepped out onto the rocky, splintered surface. Wes Farley knew the mare was endeavoring to warn him that death waited for both of these out there under that blistering sun. If Wes prided himself on being a gentleman, despite his disheveled finery, he was also aware that the mare considered herself a lady, and not used to the treatment she'd received within the last few days. She was a creature that thrived on pampering and was bred for acceleration and beauty. Wes suppressed with difficulty an all natural sense of guilt for moving her so difficult. While nothing might get her on the short haul, almost anything on four hip and legs could outdistance her with time...and this was a product Wes Farley was critically less than. Weekly now that they had been dogging him...ever since Central City and the game....
