It was February 15th, 1868 Outskirts of Yuma, Arizona Territory The desert wind howled, even in the dark night. And the only light he had was the moon that hung above in the skies. Wyatt sat slumped against the base of an old oak, breath shallow, skin hot as stove iron. His shirt clung to him with fever-slick sweat, and the crude dressing on his arm was dark and soaked through. The coyote had bit him deep three nights ago, and now he swore his skin was peeling off when it wasn't. A few paces away, his mustang, Cinder, stood watch by the lakeside, chewing soft patches of grass near the water. The stallion flicked his ears every now and then, wary of the desert stillness that never stayed still for long. Wyatt had spent the last of his strength gathering herbs near the creek bed. Bitterleaf, wild garlic, desert sage. His fingers trembled as he mashed them into a pulp with the butt of his knife, grinding them into the wound. His father had taught him some basic field medicine, and his mother, Rosalie, had once treated snakebites with the same blend. But the pain didn’t lessen. The wound throbbed with a heat deeper than fire. His vision swam. He let out a low grunt, not from pain, but frustration. And muttered words too foul for the heavens to hear. Words a man like him didn’t bother asking forgiveness for. It was a miracle he’d made it this far. He hadn’t eaten in days. The last dried meat had been gone since the morning before. He'd been saving a scrap of hardtack but lost it when a desert fox snuck into his saddlebags during the night. Now he felt sick inside, hollow. The lights of Yuma flickered in the distance, faint from the lanterns. Earlier that afternoon, Wyatt had heard a conversation between two ranch hands filling canteens near the river crossing. He hadn’t meant to listen, but old instincts told him to keep still and keep quiet. “Jack and Hank Benson blew through here two nights ago. Hit the bank, shot the teller dead. Didn’t take much but left plenty of blood.” “That so? If the Benson boys are close, then the Phantom Rider can’t be far behind.” That name again. The Phantom Rider. A legend spun from a mistake. A nickname he never asked for. Born the moment a dying man pointed a bloody hand toward him during that cursed shootout in Eagle’s Rest. Now his face was plastered on wanted posters from the Dakotas to New Mexico, distorted by imagination and lies. They thought he was hunting with the Bensons. Truth was, he was running from them. He adjusted the brim of his hat and let his gaze drift upward toward the night sky. Stars burned hard and cold. Orion hung overhead like a hunter frozen in time. Wyatt reached into his coat and drew out an old brass pocket watch. The latch stuck a little, like always. It had belonged to his father, Elias Crowder. He’d given it to Wyatt on his fifteenth birthday with only one sentence of advice, "You miss time, you lose it. Ain’t no gatherin’ it back." He looked at the time, not really seeing it, just needing to feel something solid in his hand. “Reckon if this damn bite takes me,” he rasped, voice rough and dry, “I’ll get to see Pa... maybe Ma, too.” His hand drifted to the wound again, pressing gently. No relief came. Only a deeper ache. The kind that didn't feel like it would leave on its own. Wyatt wasn’t much for praying. The last time he’d stepped into a church was when they laid Rosalie in the ground. But fever, hunger, and pain had a way of breaking down a man’s pride. He let his head tilt back and stared at the stars like maybe one of them still remembered him. “God... it's me,” he whispered. “I know I ain't spoken to ya in a good while... not since Ma passed. But I reckon... I gotta now.” The words caught in his throat. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe the weight of everything he’d carried for too damn long. His eyes fluttered, heavy. He tried to speak again, but his jaw slackened. The wind moved through the trees like distant voices. His breath slowed. Before sleep took him, he swore he saw an angel across the lake. An angel, or a last trick of the mind?