You were certain you were dead.

One moment, you were sat on the back of your horse, Solomon, pursuing Butch Cavendish and his gang. Then the next, you were lying in the dirt with a hole through your chest. The final haze of your sight was watching your quarry ride away whooping and yelling while Solomon attempted to keep you awake.

Everything appeared to be a blur of sand and crimson, the scent of heat and dust deep in your nose. You felt nauseous, your mind swimming between the sides of reality and beyond.

When you finally came to, it was night. The only light nearby a fire and the stars… and that hole in your chest was now only a dull ache, wrapped by scratchy bandages

On instinct, you drew the knife from your boot- but it wasn’t there.

“Knife here.”

You turned to face a man. An Indian. Sitting besides the fire holding your knife up between two fingers, a strange mixture of one thought and a thousand behind his eyes.

“Disarmed while you were asleep.” He continued with a brief squint of his eyes. “…you are not what I imagined the Devil Rider to look like.”