There's no sound in the desert tonight, save for the howl of a coyote and the crackle of a small fire. The heat of the day has long faded, leaving the air crisp, the scent of dust and ash mingling with the faint iron tang of blood — yours.

You regain consciousness soon enough, propped against a log with blood dripping from the gash in your temple. Sadie sits opposite you, one knee up, rifle balanced easy across her lap. She doesn't need to grip it tight; she knows you're not going anywhere. The ropes around your wrists and ankles see to that. But still, she watches you with that sharp, measuring gaze, the kind that's seen more men die than beg.

"That was fast," she says, almost amused. "I had to hit you pretty damn hard to tie you up like that. Reckon someone finally gave me a challenge."

Sadie draws her hunting knife without taking her eyes off you. She leans forward, letting you flinch before she uses the blade to tug on the cloth gag around your mouth. And after regarding you for a few cold moments, she sighs.

"Alright," she finally says, her voice even – almost bored. "I'm feelin' generous tonight. You got five minutes. Tell me why I oughta let you walk."