The white mare shifted beneath Anders.

He sat atop the horse with a noose draped around his neck. It was a loose loop of heavy, thick rope. His head was covered with weathered, torn ripstop. Anders could see shadow and light, but little else. His clasped hands were tied to his belt buckle.

The man who held the white mare’s reins—he was dirty and barefoot and smelled like burned timber—fidgeted beside the horse, uncomfortable with his charge. “Dammit,” he said. “Let’s get this over.”

The man’s partner stood beneath a large willow tree. In his hands, he held the rope’s opposite end, an end which led upward, through the willow’s thickest branches, and settled itself like a serpent on Anders. “Let me get a tight grip,” the partner said. “That’s all.” He took two unsteady backward steps toward a rising, distant sun.

The rope tightened and the willow tree groaned.

“You think this is right, but it ain’t,” Anders said. “It ain’t right at all.” Beneath him, the white mare shifted again. She exhaled through her wet nostrils and her muscles stubbornly clenched. The man with the reins coaxed her out from beneath the willow. She resisted at first, but then gave in to his furious yanks. The rope tightened and Anders tilted.

“Right,” the man with the reins said. “Right. Wrong. Right. Wrong. You know we left all that behind us. It’s why you stole our water.”

“I only took what I needed,” Anders said. “I was thirsty.”

“You were thirsty,” the man repeated. His voice pitched higher, “Thirsty!” He yanked on the reins and drew the white mare farther out from beneath the willow. “We were thirsty too. But we didn’t get caught stealing, did we? We were quiet. We were shadows.”

From under the willow, the partner let loose a harsh laugh. With one hand, he scratched his scalp through long, matted brown hair. He placed his hand back on the rope and pulled.

The man with the reins tugged harder on the horse. His bare feet plunged into the sand and his toes bled with the effort. “C ‘mon you! Do it now!”

The horse moved forward, but with noisy, blatant reluctance.

Anders slid off the horse. Here goes. No more air in my lungs. For a split-second, he felt the noose tighten around his neck like a rough collar. Above him, the willow creaked, grunted. A sharp crack echoed across the desert. The branch snapped.

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“Shit,” the partner said. “Ah, shit, Jamey!”

The rope slackened for an instant, then it swung down through bendable branches and stopped on a thick, low-hanging willow arm. Anders slammed into the dirt. He tugged at his belt loop and his hands came free. He reached up and tore the ripstop from his head. With his hands—they were still bound together—Anders began to paw at the noose around his neck. The man who held the rope’s opposite end ran out from under the willow and took all the slack. Anders could move, but the noose was tight around his neck again.

“Get ’em,” the man said. “Get ’em now, Jamey!”

Jamey let go of the white mare’s reins. The horse rose on her hind legs and kicked at him. He danced away across the hot sand and ran at Anders.

The two men fell together into the dirt. Hot, morning sun rippled through rising dust as they fought. Jamey gripped Anders by the neck and pressed him into the ground. Anders summoned his strength—what little he had left—and twisted against the hold, bent at the waist and ripped his arms toward the sky. Jamey grunted and fell sideways. They were all elbows and splayed limbs for a moment. Then, both men managed to get to their knees. Anders used his clasped hands like a hammer and belted the barefooted man across the shoulders. Jamey screamed and cursed. He heaved into the dirt and scrambled to stand. Anders threw him onto his stomach and straddled his midsection. Anders slipped his clasped hands over Jamey’s large, sunburned head. He felt the thin rope which wrapped his wrists slip over a nose, a chin—it settled around Jamey’s neck.

Anders pulled, but he felt the noose around his own neck tighten again. Jamey’s partner pulled on the rope with all his wiry strength. His face scrunched into a wild, demonic mask. He screamed, “Let him go! Let my Jamey go!”

But Anders did not let go of Jamey. He tightened his stranglehold and held on until he felt a last stutter escape, fizzle, and then die in Jamey’s throat.

“You killed ’em,” the partner said. His face drooped into a plain, unsurprised expression. He dropped the rope and fled.

Anders stood, reached down and pulled the knife from Jamey’s belt. He cut the noose from his own neck and sawed his hands free. The rope-puller was a few hundred yards away by then. He ran down into a narrow gully, crossed a boulder pile and disappeared into a sandy wash. Anders watched. The white mare nudged the small of his back. He turned and patted her neck. “There it is,” Anders said. “See, we’re A-OK.” He searched Jamey’s pockets and found nothing. The man’s canteen was empty, too. Jamey had taken the last swallow of water with him into death—what a waste. Anders stripped Jamey of his belt—cheap canvas, but probably good for something—and gathered the rope that was once his noose. He mounted the white mare. Together, they descended into the gully and crossed toward the boulder pile. Horse and rider circled the large boulders and found a place to enter the sandy wash.

They were in pursuit.