A stagecoach cuts through the desert. Its team of horses are a blur and carriage a mirage. Its driver wears a soiled suit. His eyes, half hidden beneath a bowler hat, search the curve of the earth for shadows. And his knuckles, lashed to reins, avoid each and every one. As they wind a rough road, the driver whips his steeds, and he makes harsh turns, cuts through brambles, and abandons the path when needed to stay in the sunlight. Yet, despite leading a streak atop the desert, an unavoidable outcrop soon comes into the driver's view. Its shadow stretches horizon to horizon and no amount of maneuvering will outrun the black rock's tail. Shouts from the man to his horses. His whip cracks holes in their hides. Faster and faster. The animals and the stagecoach in tow hurtle toward the stone. The coach will pass beneath it for only an instant before returning to the sun, but the driver's face is just as overwrought about a moment in the shade as he'd be with a month. He takes no solace in the shortness of the crossing. And for good reason.

Shadows shift beneath the crag unbeknownst to the stagecoach. The shapes of men pull themselves free from an invisible sea, and arms, legs, and entire bodies gain form as they cross into the world of sand. One creation newly emerged from the black walks into the middle of the outcrop. He has hatchets where any sensible man's pistols would be. He holds out his hand and stares down the raging coach.

The driver, spotting the man under the jutting rock, hoists back on his reins. He throws all his weight into his leather straps and a violent curse at the beasts in his command. But there's not enough time, and his thundercloud continues to charge.

The man under the outcrop stands strong. His hand unwavering, he doesn't move as the stampede escapes the sun nor does he quiver when the carriage careens into the rock's shadow. The coach driver pulls with all his might, still trying to stop his stallions, but with no more time and no more space, he can only shut his eyes. The driver screams.

Thrown from his seat, the man crashes into black sand.

Nothing. The sand tastes like nothing. The sand under the outcrop filling the driver's mouth tastes like nothing. Only dry. Only empty. It pulls out whatever flavors were on the man's tongue and leaves his whole body numb. He coughs. Rocks and thorns have slashed through cotton, wool, and skin. He staggers. Bones, too, aren't where they should be, and at least one rib's become powder.

He comes to his feet.

The driver's out-of-focus eyes find the man who sent him into the sand. He's still standing. And his horses have somehow shifted from a full stride to a complete stop.

"Wha... What's your name?" The driver asks, his hands touching his scalp. He feels lines of red running down his head. The man who stopped the coach turns his attention from the motionless horses to their master.

"Rohm," he mutters with an accent from sometime faraway.

"What happened?" The driver asks. He takes a step forward and back. Swaying, he's not altogether there.

"It's a hold up," Rohm states. The bandit, though, doesn't make any move toward the driver, nor does he reach for the axes at his hips. The other figures who grew out of the blackness, too, stand still. They slouch in the shadows.

The driver picks up his hat and fixes it atop his bloodied head. He straightens his bowler and studies Rohm and his companions. Around all their waists are an assortment of instruments crafted to chop, cut, and cleave the life out of a body, and while they pulled their forms from shadows, their eyes are shadows still.

A nerve twitches along the driver's neck, and all his muscles tense. No longer out of place, no longer floating above the world, the man's mind has steadied. He knows where he is. He knows why he was pushing his horses so hard. The driver takes a shallow breath. He knows who he's talking to. He knows what he's talking to.

"I'm not carrying any gold," he speaks. The driver's words are slow and pronounced, and he tries to masquerade his terror with a false firm face. The man doesn't care about the holes in his skin nor his broken bones. No, what petrifies his every ounce of being is what stands before him. "There's nothing of worth in the stagecoach."

"Well, that just depends on your definition of worth," Rohm offers back. Two of his men go for the coach's door.

-

Lourdes sits alone at a table. Patrons now pouring into the brighter parts of the bar, the boy's been left with a bottle and a wet rag. He takes a swig. He presses the cloth to his forehead. Beatrice, Helena, and Cassidy spill whiskey down their chests for pretty pieces of stone. Katterina, still nearby, still wipes the same table. Scrubbing the worn-down wood, the girl's eyes are on the yellow-eyed kid. Lourdes knows it. She watches him stare off into a corner containing nothing but the time until twilight. He's been alone, transfixed by nothingness, since the start of the day. Every so often, he blinks, drinks, or dusts a diminishing layer of ash from his skin.

Reaching into her bucket to wash the same table over again, Katterina's hand hits bottom. The bucket's dry. She's been polishing the same table for just as long as Lourdes's been at the bar, and only now realizing all the time that's gone by, she plucks up her bucket and – with red cheeks – starts to walk away. Katterina moves to the light, color, and sound splashing from the center of the saloon. She waves to Emma, but the woman's too busy orchestrating a crooked game of blackjack to offer a response. She waves to Beatrice, Helena, and Cassidy, but the three are too focused on lapping moonshine from each other's hips to salute. Katterina sets down her bucket. She stands at the bar. She makes a smile come to her face as a cowboy demands gin. Katterina serves the customer and is paid with a couple coins and a slap on the ass. Another customer. Silver this time and a kiss. A third customer. Gold dust and a request to touch her feet. Katterina looks at the rancher for some time and then down at her feet. Her feet bring her back to Lourdes. She stands before him and swallows hard.

"Thank you," the mouse squeaks.

"You're welcome," the boy responds. Lourdes's eyes look over the girl. The tangled crimson mess that is her hair floats just above her shoulders. Her face is small and hidden behind wild locks. Katterina shifts her weight. She brushes the curls from her eyes.

"Hello," Katterina smiles.

"Hello," Lourdes replies. The curious boy offers nothing more. His gaze absorbs Katterina's hair for another moment before coming over her eyes. Her cheeks. And then her lips. Katterina can feel the boy's vision bewitch her skin.

"What are you doing?" Katterina asks.

"Looking at you," Lourdes breathes. "With you coming up to my table while I was minding my own business, I thought you were inviting looks."

"No, why are you looking at my face?" Katterina asks. She tries to position her body in an appealing shape. "Wouldn't you rather stare at my breasts, bottom, or feet?"

"Well, that simply wouldn't be gentlemanly," Lourdes speaks. "And, honestly, I have little interest in your breasts and bottom, and even less in your feet."

While Lourdes continues to ponder Katterina's face, the girl turns elsewhere. She hides her eyes for a while and then fixes on Lourdes's whiskey.

"Can I have half the bottle?" Katterina asks.