-Operator-

By Chase Ivany.

They were smoking again. The chamber and muzzle of his worn pistols would be glowing by now, almost the color of the sunset that lay before him. Carson didn't need to see his shooting irons to know that they matched the dying light of sundown. He knew they lay raging in their holsters, a burnt umber with flecks of yellow and red. His eyes scanned the vast horizon, there was nothing it seemed. Nothing but sand and sky.

It might have peaceful, if it wasn't for the heat. He sauntered on, sand cracking slowly beneath his boots as he strolled. It was hard pan desert, and it made seeing great distances easier but wrecked havoc on his feet. With its lack of vegetation and barren qualities the only thing that competed with his sharp eyes was the ever constant heat shimmer. The sand seemed to dance slowly, almost mockingly as he pressed forward. Cresting a gentle dune his eyes noted the black smudge that came into view. Carson had wandered long and far, and the hint of a town at the edge of sight in the unsteady light of the dying day no longer set his heart to racing. He knew better.

He paused, contemplating the hazy shivering ghost town on the horizon. Already the light was failing as he stood pausing in the desert. To have stopped moving and be pleased by the mere thought of a town was a sign of his weariness. Pulling a canteen from within the folds of his long jacket he took a few swigs and sat.

"Take a load off Harris." He said smirking to himself, remembered his companion in the last town of Jacob.

It was only once he was seated that Carson began to smell it. The blistering and charring of his deeply oiled holsters. It smelled like food. At that his stomach awoke angrily, hankering for a fix. He hated that smell when he was hungry. The burning leather was something he was used to, but he was always moving and scent of his burning holsters usually drifted off behind him. Now he was seated for the night, and the smell was driving him mad. The gentle westward wind had died down and he could hear the hiss of his guns slowly baking away. The sound accompanied with the smell drew his mind to meat over a camp fire and his empty stomach grumbled.

It could be Dagg.

It was his last thought as sleep overtook him. It was a light sleep, and in the morning his knees and neck would ache from the rigorous cold of the night. But Carson would be rested, and it was his only option. There was no shelter to seek out here on the dessert sand.

Carson had heard tell of Dagg when he was still a few days back. A lone rider had passed him as he walked, slowing briefly to have a word. Carson had been expecting him for about an hour, noting the moving trail of dust on the horizon and wondering who it could be that approached him. He had briefly considered pulling his guns when the rider had come into view, but didn't give the idea much thought. If he needed to, he could. That was enough.

"Whoa girl." The man said quietly to his horse as he neared Carson.

The horse was already slowing to investigate what was likely the first person other than its owner that it has seen in days.

"I think she likes you." The man said and chuckled. A hint of nerves were present in that laugh.

Carson had raised one of his hands and began brushing the mares head steadily, savoring the texture of her mane against his rough calloused hands. She was calm and solidly built. At a glance Carson found her to be a thoroughbred horse, likely of some value.

The riders nervousness was understandable. Carson stood petting the horse, his eyes flicking to the man and then his saddle bags which had been neatly tied down and back once more. The reins were fresh and supple, not cracked from wear. The bags that adorned the horse hung heavy and were packed tightly. The saddle was magnificent, with images and designs scrolled elegantly into the dark leather. But the man atop the horse struck Carson as odd. His jacket seemed too new, his hat was not yet worn or faded from the dessert sun. The man himself looked clean and well kept, with a trim beard and broad shoulders. He might have been imposing, if not for the slight ponch he carried around his midsection.

Clearly a wealthy man, and those who had made themselves wealthy were rare in these parts. Usually Carson would find one man like this in every town he visited. A man who had his finger in every piece of the pie. Though it was rare that they left those towns once they had established their wealth, and with it their sense of entitlement. Why would such a man leave such a town? And where could he possibly be headed? There wasn't a town behind Carson that wasn't at least a week's walk away. Even on horse back it would take him three or four days. None of it made sense, and in the senselessness of the desert he supposed that to find such a man really wasn't that strange. Still, the man on horseback intrigued him. Carson looked him in the eye.

"Where are you headed?" Carson asked.

"Out of Dagg." The rider responded.

He hadn't answered the question at all. Carson felt a sharp flare of anger ignite within his stomach. He pictured his fingers snuffing out the flame of a single match with a pinch and extinguished the feeling just as quickly as it had come. By this time he was cursing himself, the weeks of desert had slowed his mind to nothing but a plodding pace. He supposed this was part of the reason he was able to trudge on without despair, he didn't allow his mind to wander. Carson wasn't an imaginative man and he couldn't picture his own death out here on the hardpan. Perhaps it was why he was still alive.

This man, whoever he was, was on the run and had tried to take his riches with him. It was a simple explanation for the bulging saddle bags, impressive dress, and gorgeous stead. More over he didn't seem to have the foresight to have packed much with him in the way of food.

"You're not going to make it." Carson began, a plan forming as the words fell from his lips.

"Beg pardon?" the man said slightly taken aback.

"Wherever you think you're headed, you won't make it. This beautiful mare of yours will starve. You'll be forced to try and eat her. That is, if she doesn't attract the desert Roamers before you get a chance. They can tell. The birds will give her away."

Carson watched the mans eyes widen, his words stung and the rider reacted as if slapped. No one had ever spoken to him with such intimidating frankness. His wealth had coddled him. The desert had that ability, to strip a man of his armor and leave him naked and vulnerable, forced to face the world as he was, not as he imagined himself to be. The shock lingered in his eyes and Carson took in his stunned silence before continuing.

"I don't know what or who you're running from, but I know that you were so scared that you left - 'Dagg' was it? - Without thought. You haven't packed enough food. And you haven't been rationing adequately because you don't know where you're going. You don't know how to care for your horse out here in the desert. You rode out of your way to meet me because you're worried that you will die out here. Starving, without a horse, your home wheels and wheels behind you. Entirely alone." Carson paused to look the man in the eye. Seeing both fear and hope, Carson removed a canteen from within the dark folds of jacket and took a drink. He grinned internally and felt he was right on track.