Into the Moonshine

The sun, sinking behind the jagged line of mountains, threw long shadows over the sagebrush-covered desert. Tom adjusted his hat and squinted into the fading light. The desert stretched out before him, vast and quiet, like an old partner you didn’t need to speak to understand.

His horse, a roan with legs like steel springs, stood steady beside him, ears twitching at the faintest sound. The horse was seasoned enough to know the trail wasn’t the place to let your guard down, and Tom respected that.

Everything mattered, from that last drink of water you took to how your horse shifted its weight. Both Tom and the roan had learned that the hard way.

The world around them was dust and silence, but Tom knew there were eyes out there, watching. He could feel it–like an old gunfighter can sense the draw of a hidden pistol.

Somewhere out in the darkening horizon, someone—or something—waited. And while the roan stood solid, Tom’s hand drifted to the butt of his revolver–just in case.

The silence had weight. It pressed down on Tom’s shoulders, sharp and heavy, like the feel of an ambush on the way.

His eyes tracked along the line of low hills to the north, then the slope of the desert floor to the south. It was a habit that had saved his life more than once—keep a line of escape open, always know what’s behind you.

The roan shifted, sensing his vigilance, and Tom leaned down to pat its neck. “Easy, boy,” he murmured.

The roan’s ears twitched, but its body stayed still, muscles tensed like coiled wire. Horses didn’t relax much out here. They’d seen enough to know better.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dry sage and something unfamiliar. A trace of old wood smoke, maybe.

Tom’s grip tightened on the leather reins, fingers brushing the rough handle of his rifle. It was as natural as breathing, that readiness. You learned it out here, or you didn’t last.

A movement caught his eye on the ridge, just a hint of a shadow against the rock. Whoever had made a mistake—a momentary slip in their patience, just enough to let Tom know he wasn’t alone.

He eased the roan’s head around, keeping one eye on the ridge. He didn’t move fast. Fast drew eyes, brought on the bullet.

“Someone’s got it in their head to follow me,” he muttered, voice barely louder than the whisper of sand shifting. “Looks like they’ll be disappointed.”

The roan responded to his steady hand, turning lightly and picking its way over the rocks, quiet as an outlaw slipping through the night. Tom led them down a narrow gully he knew well, hidden by brush and scattered boulders.

It wasn’t the easiest route, but it was out of the line of sight.

The night was drawing in now, the last bit of daylight bleeding away, leaving the land cast in hues of gray and blue. He heard a faint echo, boots against the rocks, and knew whoever was up there wasn’t alone.

Tom let out a slow breath, keeping his rifle ready but held low. He’d seen enough men make their last mistake, enough to know this would not be his.

He was deep in the gully when he heard it—the soft click of a pistol as it was cocked, just ahead and to his left.

Tom froze, his gaze slicing through the deepening dusk toward the source of the sound. It was the kind of noise that took a man’s heart and made it beat slower, steadier, like the pull of a bowstring.

The roan sensed it too, halting without command, ears pinned forward, nostrils flaring. Whoever was up ahead was close enough to smell the dust on Tom’s boots.

He took a breath and glanced around the shadowed trail, calculating every step. There was no backing out now, not without giving himself away.

Moving with the patience of a hunter, he slid his rifle into his hand, lifting it just enough to be ready but not enough to betray his position. Then, a voice broke the silence.

“Looks like you got yourself turned around, friend.” The tone was oily, smooth as river stones, but with a hard edge that spoke of countless bad decisions and little mercy.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard that voice in a canyon years ago, not far from here.

It belonged to a man called Deke Sanderson, an outlaw with a reputation as cold and pitiless as the high desert. Last Tom had heard, Sanderson was riding with a band of raiders who lived by taking what they wanted and leaving no witnesses.

“A man can’t get turned around if he’s never lost,” Tom replied evenly, letting his voice drift through the rocks and shadows. He wanted them guessing, uncertain just where he stood. “What brings you out here, Sanderson? Thought you’d be in Mexico by now.”

A chuckle echoed through the canyon, low and mean. “I was, but I heard an old friend was passing through, and came to say hello.” He paused as if savoring his words. “Could say I owe you, Tom.”

Tom didn’t need to ask for what. Years back, he’d thrown Sanderson’s plan into disarray, leaving the outlaw with a bullet in the leg and two good men lost.

Tom had been younger then, hungry for justice. But men like Sanderson didn’t forget. They just waited, like rattlers under a rock, patient and venomous.

“Well, you found me,” Tom called back, his voice composed–like he was talking over the bar of some dusty saloon. “Let’s see what you’re planning to do with it.”

There was a pause, a shift of movement, then a tell. Tom felt his muscles coil.

The roan held steady as if sensing it too–waiting. Then the first shot rang out, splitting the quiet night air, a flash from up on the rocks.

Tom was already ducking, rifle raised, and taking aim. He fired back, a sharp crack against the silence, watching as his muzzle flash lit up the canyon walls.

The next few moments were a blur of movement and sound. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks, scattering dust and grit.

Tom kept low, moving along the canyon wall, his mind clear, cold as ice. He could see Sanderson’s men now, shadows in the rocks, trying to get a bead on him, but he was faster, his aim steady and sure. One of the shadows toppled, dropping with a muffled shout, and the others hesitated.

In that brief pause, Tom swung up into the saddle, urging the roan forward. They shot out of the gully, the horse and rider moving as one, with Tom’s hand still on his rifle, his eyes scanning the ridges.

Behind him, he could hear Sanderson cursing and shouting orders, but Tom did not look back.

The open desert, vast and empty, was ahead and stretching toward a horizon tinged with the last light of day. The roan’s hooves thundered against the ground as they rode into the night, leaving Sanderson and his gang in a cloud of settling dust.

The pair did not slow until the stars were high, the crescent moon showed, and the danger had faded to memory.