The heat of the summer sun hovered above the dusty earth like hateful, shimmering fog; high noon. Rico was fleeing on horseback toward the Mission, and Sheriff Bradley was in hot pursuit, almost close enough to smell the varmint's cigar. Dust assaulted the Sheriff's eyes, causing them to water and his vision to blur. Rico turned in his saddle and began to fire. For a man riding a horse at full gallop, his aim was frightening. Bullets screamed past the Sheriff: One to the left, one to the right, the next took Bradley's hat, sending it tumbling off the horse's backside and onto the ground below. Colt Frontier in hand, the Sheriff fired back. The first two sailed harmlessly onto the either. The third, however, found it's mark, as the Sheriff could barely make out a Rico jerking in his saddle and flailing his arm, and a shining speck flying into the air; Rico's gun. Rico braced himself on his saddle and was nearly thrown off by his galloping horse. His right-arm seemingly debilitated, the Sheriff figured that Rico would not be to fire a weapon or ride a horse at full speed. He'd be able to give that bastard a proper neck-tie, thought the Sheriff. Through the dust, the Sheriff could barely make out Rico, his horse still at full gallop, reaching into his saddlebag and putting it up to his face.
They were quickly nearing the Mission, it's wall and bell coming into relief through a filter of dust. The Sheriff was gaining on Rico, despite his best effort to ride a galloping horse with one hand. With his left hand, Rico flung an object behind his body. Transfixed, the Sheriff saw as It disappeared into the dust and midday heat before passing under the Sheriff's horse. Just as the sheriff looked back at his quarry, both he and his horse were thrown forward and slammed onto the hard-scrabble ground, the rocks tearing into their flesh with the like a wild animal. The Sheriff rose off the ground and released a groan audible to all but him, the blast deafening him before enshrouding his bloodied battered frame in dust.
"Blasted dynamite!"
The Sheriff grabbed the reigns of his concussed horse and practically jerked it to it's hoofs. Trying to capture Rico had become too dangerous, thought the sheriff. If Rico had more dynamite, there wouldn't be enough of both of them to fill a spittoon. Sheriff Bradley mounted the horse and tried his damnedest to coax it into a gallop. The beast wobbled and stumbled, still shaken from the blast. Scraped, bruised, and with blood running out of his ears, the Sheriff took aim with his three remaining shots. The first went wild and ricocheted off a rock, back at the sheriff. The Sheriff took again took aim and the fleeing criminal, trying as best he could to synchronize his movements with the awkwardly undulating creature under him. He pulled the trigger and completely missed his target. The Sheriff did, however, did manage to inadvertently fell Rico's horse, leaving it in a heap upon the wasteland and it's injured rider crumpled beside it.
Sheriff Bradley came to a stop, lowered his revolver, and gazed at his now stationary target. Rico could still manage to blow the both of them up if an attempt at an arrest was made, no sense in risking that. Instead, the Sheriff was perfectly content with taking shots at his target from a distance. Bradley reached onto his bandoleer, took out five cartridges, and began to reload his revolver. Sheriff Bradley looked down just in time to catch a glimpse of the bullet entering his neck.
Bradley never heard the rifle crack, and never saw the figure duck back behind the Mission's Wall. There was a warm, wet sensation from the fluids rushing out of his body, but strangely, he thought, no pain. His neck severed, the Sheriff fell off of his horse and onto the ground with a crash, his blood staining the parched earth. He was dead to all sensation, and would soon be so in all respects. The Sheriff landed on his face, such that he could see Rico approaching. Part of him which that he'd die before Rico could get his hands on him; all of him still wished to see Rico dead, but, try as he might, the Sheriff could not move. Rico mounted the Sheriff's horse and rode off to the Mission. Rico the Horse Thief stole yet another horse, and this time, the Sheriff caught him red handed. The sheriff exuded bloody laughter at the sight. What's more, the Sheriff thought, the Son of a Bitch didn't even bother to gloat!
The Sheriff had often been told that righteous men like himself would see the light or Jesus as they lay dying, where as scoundrels would see nothing but darkness. That didn't happen. Instead, all of Bradley's thought's turned to his Princess far away. He missed her, he missed her more desperately than he hated Rico or anybody else. The thought that he had abandoned her in her time of need to go on a fool's errand ,and what's more, that she would never know that he was truly dead, was too much to bear. In his pathetic state, he wept. He could feel her last gift to him, a classic, but he couldn't read too good. He wished he could pull it out and read the message she had left him, but he couldn't move. Her name, Sarah, left his lips as though it was an appeal to a vengeful God. No one answered.
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