Gone is that westerly wind and in its stead comes a stillness to echo each sound into the night. Boots crunch along the cooling desert grit. A hundred or more are spread out along the caravan. They lie in the shadows of their wagons and nurse their wounded and mourn their dead. He walks among them. Their horses are stolen or dead. Most of their young men are gone too. All who remain are numbed with terror and exhaustion. They dare not light fires despite the cold. He pulls back his coat to rest his hands on his hips and reveals the silver of his gun in the moonlight. These people are at his mercy. He knows it. They know it. After all they have done to get here, they should know there might be none in him.
Paddy Dobson
1st July 2021