A sand storm on the third day of Dusty's pursuit had erased the tracks that were left by his horse. Only when he would stumble onto the remains of a fire or some other sign of life did he have proof that he was headed in the right direction, He was never positive that he would ever find his wife's murderer - sometimes he wasn't sure he ever had a wife - maybe his life just started somewhere in the desert - maybe he was in hell. All he did know was that he would never be able to do anything but search - search for the monster.
Small town were scattered throughout the desert, like islands in the ocean. Most centered around a creek or small lake. Sometimes Dusty would go months without seeing one. Most of the times when he did pass through a town, he would do odd jobs in return for bullets or food - clean a stable, butcher an animal - jobs most people would rather not do.
He never would stay in a town more than two days. After so much time in the desert, towns gave him a claustrophobic feeling. Dusty could not feel the force when he was in a town. It was that force that led him down the right path, like a sixth sense, that homed in on the monster.
Once a man gave him a horse for a job well done. Dusty rode the beautiful animal for three days. Although he made better time, he felt the force leave him, as if the devil himself must be toying with him, wanting to see just how far a man would push himself to avenge his wife. The devil wanted him to give up. But Dusty was not even going to let the devil stop him.
Dusty woke to see the sun rising over a small dune. He glanced down and saw his legs protruding from the coyote's corpse. Even for him this was not a sight to awaken to. His stomach turned, and he noticed how stiff his legs had become. The animal was even stiffer, and Dusty heard dull ripping noises as he pulled out his intestine-covered feet.
He screamed in pain as he rubbed his feet in the sand to remove the blood and guts. With his blanket, he wiped away the dirt. The big toe on his right foot had turned a blackish-green. Dusty knew it would have to go. He crawled back about a hundred yards to where he had camped the night before. He removed the whiskey bottle from the leather bag that contained his life. He found the cleanest area of the blanket and cut a strip of it with his knife, then saturated it with whiskey. He poured half of the remaining alcohol over his toe, rinsing off the remaining sand and blood.
In a little ritual he stretched his arms over his head, then down to his sides, tendons popping as he did so. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on thoughts of Clara, and her beautiful face he knew and loved before the monster destroyed it.
Dusty placed the sharp knife on the base of his toe with the handle pointing away from his foot. He clenched his right fist tightly and raised it two feet above the knife. With all the strength he could muster, he brought it down on the top of the blade. The knife passed through the bone, but the toe then gave in the sand. The sharp steel fell short of completing the job, and when his foot jerked up from the intense pain, the dark green toe hung beneath it like a rain-drenched flag. Out of his mind with pain, Dusty reached down and quickly ripped the toe completely off his foot. Green sludge spewed from the severed toe as it hit the ground, and Dusty tightened his grip in agony.
He poured the remaining whiskey onto the nub where his toe had been, sending a fiery feeling throughout his body. He had just enough time to wrap the whiskey-soaked strip of cloth around his foot before passing out from the pain.
He was brought back to the world of the living by a drop of rain. It had been over a week since he had seen any water at all, and more than two months since it had rained. Dusty opened his eyes to a dark gray sky. The clouds were big and heavy, ready to soak the thirsty ground. His toe was aching, but the force was eating away at him to get going. It was stronger than it had ever been. He could feel the monster's presence all around. He had to move fast.
Dusty ignored any signal of pain that his foot was trying to send to his brain. He gathered his belongings, pulled on his left boot and started to pack his right. Then he thought, No, if I'm going to meet that monster it'll be with both boots on, and I'll be damned if I'm going to limp.
He drew his right boot over his foot. The pain was exploding like dynamite, but he refused to acknowledge it. Then without a trace of a limp he began to follow the path that seemed to glow in front of him.
After walking for almost an hour, the rain stopped. Not gradually, but all at once; one second it was pouring, the next, nothing. The clouds parted and the sun shone through the gap, like a giant spotlight, on a large river surrounded by trees. Dusty could see a deer drinking from it. His first thought was that he had died; everything looked so peaceful. He wanted to run and jump into the clear water, knowing how good it would feel. But something inside also knew that if he did, he would never get his revenge.
To his right, Dusty saw a narrow bridge made of stone. He knew if he chose to cross it, the jagged rocks would create unthinkable pain to his feet, even through his boots. On the other side of the river, where the bridge stood, was nothing but hot, dry sand. The trees ended before reaching the bridge.
Dusty knew he had a choice - stay there and bathe in the cool river, or refuse the relief and continue along the horrid, punishing path of revenge. He took two more steps toward the water, turned aside, then ran as fast as he could to the bridge.
The choice had been made five years earlier. The game was over. The devil lost.
(To be continued)
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