West

The midday sun hangs high overhead, the force of its heat bearing down unobstructed by clouds. What should be clear blue skies surrounding it appear almost translucent, as if the sky had fallen away to reveal the heavens beyond, a mirage brought on by the ferocity of Sol’s presence now at the peak of its arc. So intense are the sun's rays that in every direction waves of hot air flicker inches above the ground, a memory of long dried waters. Below cracked brown earth occasionally broken up by bleached stones and cacti, bastions of life standing stubbornly amongst dead shrubs and tumbleweeds, reaches to the horizon.

A hummingbird stops to hover beside one such cactus, wings nothing more than a blur as it considers its next move. Sat on one of its three spined arms is a flower with pink petals, arranged to create a bowl around its yellow centre. The hummingbird darts toward the flower, stops, and retreats. Three times it repeats this motion, testing the safety of its intended meal with a sporadic dance, before finally reaching its long beak into the flower’s core to drink. Held perfectly still in the air by the blurs in place of its wings, the hummingbird remains for no more than a minute before retreating one final time to continue on its journey. For miles the tiny green speck flies with seemingly little purpose, stopping to feed at each cactus it comes across. As the day draws on the sun above moves lazily westward, casting the hummingbird’s meagre shadow ever further before it.

Stopping once more, this time above a cactus with no arms, the hummingbird performs its dance and takes off, stopping again but a few moments later. Flitting between spines, moving from flower to flower as the sun continues its journey above the hummingbird finds dozens of flowering plants, hovering before each one to decide where to go for its next meal. Beneath, a sparse but tall grass forces its way through the dusty ground and small bushes cling to life amongst taller cacti, all leading downhill towards the centre of a small crater. At its heart a pond provides the water necessary for this oasis to exist at all, a pale tree stretching thin limbs provides shade along one edge. The hummingbird perches on one of its branches. A sand coloured snake slithers from the trunk to a nearby rock, finding sanctuary beneath. A doe drinks at the pool.

Settling down in the thin shadows cast by the tree, the doe flicks its ears, watching its surroundings carefully. Brown hair, speckled with dark spots along its back, allows it to blend into the earth in which it sits. A faint wind blows through, yellowing leaves rustle above, the hummingbird takes flight once more to continue its search for food. As it darts through thin branches a leaf comes loose, dancing on the breeze that carries it downward, leading it to rest on the clear surface of the pond. Ripples travel from the leaf to the bank, meeting those sent out by the doe’s long draughts and dissipating with a glimmer of reflected sunlight.

For the rest of the day the doe rests here in the shade of the tree, drinking from the pool and eating what it can of the tough grass that sprouts in its vicinity. By the time the sun has begun to retreat below the western horizon its replacement has risen in the east, ghostly in the failing light of the day. What had been clear blue skies now shift into purple and orange, patches of cloud cover obscuring the brightest of emerging constellations. With the approaching twilight those nocturnal reptiles and insects that had slept beneath stones begin to emerge from their secret places, the need to hunt and forage driving them out into the desert. Seeing all of this, but paying no mind to any part, the doe watches with wide eyes and listens, ears turning toward each new sound.

A crunch catches its attention. To the north something moves under cover of growing darkness. The doe stands, ready to bolt at any moment. A clap of thunder rings out with a flash of white and the doe’s head explodes into a haze of red mist. Blood paints the tree a deep crimson, the earth around it absorbing as much as it can before a pool begins to form, trickling down into the pond and contaminating the water with swirling red tendrils, travelling deeper with each second. The unfortunate animal kicks out in its death throes, a lifeless body coming to terms with its own sudden demise.

“Nice shot,” says a man with a deep, hoarse voice, standing from his hiding place to the north. The beginnings of a scruffy beard lie beneath a wide nose and small, squinted eyes. The man’s clothes are filthy from days of riding in the dust. He takes off a wide brimmed hat to scratch his scalp, releasing a clump of thick black hair that falls to his shoulders. Dirty riding boots kick up a cloud as he spins to head away from the kill. “I’ll go grab the horses and we can set up camp.”

A grunt of affirmation is all the man receives from his companion. Standing slowly, the second man keeps his gaze fixed on the deer. Without looking back to see if he is being followed, the shooter begins the walk south, hanging his rifle over one shoulder he pulls his own hat down to shield his eyes from the last of the low light. Clean shaven with a square jaw, this man is only slightly cleaner than the first, the rifle at his back immaculate in comparison. Step by step he approaches his prey, drawing a hunting knife from his belt in preparation. The doe stares up at him in silent surprise as he straddles the creature, reaching down and opening its throat to release what remains of the blood in its veins. He watches closely as it runs down into the pond, now thick with red.

Almost ten minutes pass before the bearded man catches up, now in the saddle with a second horse being led close behind. He swings his legs over and drops to the ground, patting his mount’s flank before tying both animals to the tree and joining his companion over the body of the doe. In one practised motion he pulls a match set and cigarette from his breast pocket, lighting each and taking a deep drag. As the cleaner man retrieves his own cigarette from behind the ear he accepts an offered match, lights the tobacco, and extinguishes the flame with a flick into the pond. Neither looks away from the gory sight before them.

“Shame it weren’t a buck, could have taken the antlers,” says the bearded man with a cough, marking his disappointment by spitting at the animal's limp form.

The clean shaved man lifts his head to the western horizon, judging the sun as he readjusts his hat. “Could still make something off the hide if it worries you that much, we gotta get a fire going.”

As day finally gives way to night the men go about starting a campfire at the red pond’s edge, snapping branches from the tree above for kindling. Using the dull glow of the fire to see by, the pair then carry the doe’s carcass into the desert, leaving it to be scavenged in the night. Under the watch of the moon the men lay out bedrolls below the tree and eat a meagre meal of dried meat taken from their saddlebags. Well into the night they sit in silence, the bearded man watching the fire burn itself out while the clean shaved man oils and cleans his rifle.

With the fire reduced to smouldering embers and neither man willing to break the silence of the night a wordless agreement is made, each laying down to force themselves into restless sleep.

Dawn bringing the sun once again forces the men to wake in an uncomfortable haze. Around them insects and reptiles that made the night their hunting grounds retreat once more into their secret places, though they don’t notice. Their attention is on the horses and their belongings, gathering their bedrolls alongside another meal of dried meat they prepare for a day of riding. Some fifty feet away the doe stares into the sky where vultures have begun to gather, circling lazily amongst wispy clouds, waiting to scavenge what remains of the men’s forgotten prey. Without a word between them the men ride north. The bearded man leads the way. The clean shaven man adjusts his hat and then his rifle, slung across the back.

For seven hours the men ride. They pass cacti with pink flowers. They pass dead shrubs and dying grass, pushing out from the cracked ground. They pass the skeleton of a buck, its antlers cut at the base from a skull shattered by a bullet wound. A plume of smoke trails behind a steam train in the distance, heading towards their ever expanding town. The closer they get to home the louder the sound of the train becomes, its body disappearing behind the buildings of their small town and coming to a halt with screeching brakes. The ground beneath the horse’s hooves transitions from hard earth to mud as the men reach the town’s main street. They stop beside each other, the bearded man taking in the sight of an old man drunkenly stumbling from building to building, the clean shaven man looking up to judge the sun’s position.

“Same time next week?” asks the bearded man.

“Sure,” replies the clean shaven man.

The men go their separate ways.

In a pond to the south a leaf spins through bloody water. A hummingbird darts from flower to flower, before landing on the snapped branch of a tree whose trunk is sprayed with red. A group of vultures fight over scraps of meat, stripping clean the carcass of a doe. The remnants of a campfire collapse into ash.