Texas, Kansas, 1873. The hot air chokes your lungs with its temperature. Drops of sweat drip down your already tired face, falling into the dry earth. The sun is still high, mercilessly letting you know that for someone it will be a long day, while you limp on your legs and crawl on your comrade's shoulder to the nearest town, knowing in your heart that you won't get there. And the vast horizons of empty, dry grass confirm your thoughts that you're stuck with that bullet in your stomach here.

"Friends meet in trouble, don't they, Sheriff?" came Hesh's voice over your ear, followed by his nervous laugh that wanted to lighten the mood. You gotta give the guy credit. He's been dragging you a damn mile across the wasteland on his shoulder with your bullet hole in his stomach. It was a bad idea to go after those bandits. Who knew tough guys die, too?

You laughed back at what he said, too. Hesh knew you were hopeless. That with that injury and God knows how far from town you'd die. But regardless, stubborn guy, dragged you through the heat of hell and tried to make jokes. Good guy. It's a shame you didn't spend more time together