- Somewhere in the rocky desert of Arizona -
On that insufferably hot summer day, in a land where nothing but cacti drew the attention of the sun, where one would think life could only survive beneath the opening of the gaping canyons, or behind the shadows of the enormous cliffs, there was a dark figure the size of an ant in the open distance.
He didn't even feel the heat from the blazing fire beside him, the scorching sun burnt even hotter than the fire after all. He tossed his green poncho over his shoulder so it wouldn't catch fire, behind that old poncho was something much cleaner, the shining of stainless metal glaring against the sun. He put his creased old cowboy hat to the side and exhaled deeply. Moments later, he fell back in front of his tent, just to think—about what was to come, and what had already passed. "Blood on his hands. Flashes of his sister's eyes, just before they closed for good. He couldn't help but remember them, and the truth is, the only way to move forward is to forgive himself. But of course, the overwhelming amount of guilt would always overpower the ability to forgive, and that - that was Ruster Anderson's weakness: self blame.
The surrounding desert was rocky, with a gravel path cutting through not too far ahead, and his camp spot located in a rocky area with a little ledge above it. Suddenly, as he was laid back relaxing by the campfire he heard the familiar noise of a horse's hooves treading across the gravel. He took a tight grip around the revolver handle sticking up from his side holster, ready to draw at a moment's notice. It would be very unusual seeing anyone riding around these parts of the desert, just about in the middle of nowhere with no place leading from it, still, the galloping grew louder. He counted the sound of the hooves as they moved across the ground, it was but one person with one horse.
"Who in God's name would be movin' 'round these parts?" he thought.
Although his bounty had risen to a whole one thousand dollars, no man in the whole west would dare step foot here. Suddenly the noise stopped, after a few seconds of not hearing anything at all he peeked up from behind the little rock guard in front of him. He barely lifted his head when the cold click of a revolver answered behind him. He'd been so focused on the horse ahead, he never even considered someone might be behind him.
"Darn, an ambush," he thought, and so he was right.
"Don't you dare fucking move mister, if I see you try drawing that revolver you're as good as dead," a man behind him said.
The voice behind him was cold as ice-dry, cracked, like the man hadn't tasted water in days. Rusty swallowed hard. His already drenched forehead somehow started sweating even more.
"I'm lookin' for a fella who goes by the name of Rusty, you know o' him? Funny thing's he look just like ya, and about that, I'd be pretty sure that shining arm belongs to him as well"
The man laughed and started choking on his own laugh, because there couldn't be any saliva in that damn mouth to choke on.
"Don't know him," Rusty said.
His pulse kicked harder—cornered, outgunned, out of time. Now he also heard steps coming from in front of him, and within a few seconds they were right before him.
"Hot damn! We landed ourselves a big one here, didn't we Pat? Look at you, all helpless," the unknown man said.
He laughed like a maniac.
"I just love seeing them like that, once we get ya to the office we've got enough dough to last us about a decade, ain't that right Pattie boy?"
"Hey, who do you think you are, you bastard!?" Rusty yelled at him.
His voice shook - he sounded like a loser with no right to talk back. How he would just love to blow the head off that screeching bastard.
"Oh just look at that, what a cute attempt to scare me, what are you waiting for Pattie, shoot this son of a bitch in the head and let's go grab that fine bounty!" the man with the screechy voice said.
He was taunting Rusty while circling him in a mocking manner and jumping around him.
"Otis, hold up just a minute - what'd that poster say again," the man with the dark voice asked.
"Who cares? Let's take him with us. Dead or alive—does it really matter, Pat?!" Otis replied.
"It matters, alright, the boss told us to bring him in alive, didn't he? So either, we tie this guy up on the back of ya horse, alive, or you go ahead and tell the boss about how you shot the one motherfucker he needed alive," Pat said.
"Boss this, boss that—you his damn lapdog now? Maybe he'll toss you a bone if you wag your tail hard enough. Or maybe let your whore outta that cage he keeps her in." Otis said with the same mocking manner as previously.
"What the fuck did you just call my wife?" Pat replied.
This was his moment, they were too caught up arguing, the man who'd had the gun pointed at his head was now waving it around. He took one big, deep breath. The next moment he hopped up from his kneeling position and with a crack like splitting wood, his metal fist shattered the man's jaw. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he tumbled backward, and the same second, Rusty drew his revolver, he quickly pulled down the hammer and shot one clean shot through the brain of the bastard who was just mocking him.