1873

A sharp line dissects the landscape into two shades of black.  As the wind rustles the brush, a third color is injected into the scene, also black, the dark shape of a rider and a horse, cracking the horizon line down the middle.

Ahead is a squat adobe.   In the doorway, a cigarette dies.  Falling hooves grow closer.  A sentry presses his back against the door, light from within shimmers around the brim of his hat.  A sharp intake of breath as the horse appears from the dark night, stirrups bouncing below an empty saddle. He catches the reins with one hand, the other hand holds a gun.

He runs his fingers along the horse’s flank.  Wet with sweat.

Inside, a dozen men are frozen over a coffin, eyes on the door, hands hovering over their gun-belts.  A beautiful young woman in a Mexican dress lies there, her arms across her chest.

The sentry steps in.  “Just a horse,” he says, relighting his cigarette.  “The rider?” asks the largest of the large men.  The sentry blows smoke.  “No rider.”

The big man kicks the floor and a rifle is in his hands.  He throws aside a man and then a door.  In a small room, there is an empty cradle and an open window.  Curtains blow.  A horse whinnies.

The posse charges outside and fire blindly into the dark night.

The Story Unfolds…