Clem got off his worn-out horse. The poor creature was near death after three days of running from his tracker who he suspected was a bounty hunter.
His crime, killing a man in self defense. No trial.
Took his saddle and warbag off his horse, turning him loose. In the horizon he saw a cloud of dust. A rider. Maybe an hour away. The blazing sun was merciless. He was out of water. Only one bullet left in his revolver.
This was his last stand. Finally, the rider drew near.
“Is that you Clem?” his brother cried out in surprise.
The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff 