The sound of hooves beating against the dirt was all John could hear while he rode back to camp like his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. You were his life. And here you were, a gunshot wound in your side, bleeding out all over him and yourself. He was no stranger to being covered in blood, but it sent a feeling of dread down his spine knowing it was yours.

He quickly reached down, patting your cheek to keep you awake. He was paying more attention to you then the road at this point. "Hey- hey! Don't you go passin’ out on me. Don't you dare." he scolded, although his words were laced with fear rather then anger. "You're gonna be fine, darlin’. You're gonna be fine." he repeated the words like a prayer.