Ignobles

PROLOGUE

They say a man who crossed the desert alone was no longer a man.

If his flesh survived, his soul surely didn't. His mind, on the other hand, would become calloused. Not just from the journey, but from whatever had pushed him to take the first step. Whatever had driven him so far off the edge that he was willing to walk through hell. That would stew in his mind for the days he would ride through the desert. Or the days he would walk if he hadn't a horse.

Ricardo Santiago's horse had been shot in the back of the head. His clothes were stained with sweat that left dark patches under his armpits, around his collar like a hanging noose, and on his back like a saddle. His previously well-kept black hair was now a sweaty, tangled mess, flattened by a black hat.

He had been walking for three days. He had eaten once since he had started. His water-skin had been emptied the previous day. Now it hung at his side from a thin braid of leather, as shriveled as a dry worm. He watched his boots as he walked. As they staggered and fell to the sandy ground, their soles crunching against the sand and gravel blotted out by the sound of his breathing. The blood pumping in his ears like the galloping of a horse.

The sky was blaring blue as it normally was. Escarpments and mountains traced the horizon like the zigzags of a rattlesnake's scales. Just not as even.

He had a vague idea of where he was walking. The only thing he knew for sure was that if he didn't find the town soon, he would die. He became aware of the burning in his legs again. A pain that began in the depths of his muscle and surged up through his whole leg with each step he took.

But he pressed on.

He spat out a thick glob of muddy saliva and watched it evaporate on the cracking ground.

Should have saved that, He thought, feeling his tongue stick to his gums.

He pressed on. Past disheveled bushes and cacti taller than he was. All the while his thoughts wandered back to how he had ended up at the outskirts of the desert. The men who were pursuing him. He could still hear their threats. Their screams. They had left him to wander through the desert by himself because they knew it was a worse way to die than just being shot. Or hanged.

But Ricardo planned on surviving. Even if he was broken forever by what he had done, the things and people... the girl he had left behind. If he could survive the desert alone, he could convince himself to keep living. He knew he could. Because there was still a part of him that wanted a bullet to the head instead of taking another step.

The sun was starting to sink behind the mountain range ahead of him. So he knew he was still heading west. Towards the nearest town possible.

He looked down at his dense, calloused hands. Even through the powdery sand that had gathered on them, he could see blood. Patches of it, like a shredded glove. He clenched them tight, palms turning a pale yellow. And he pressed on.

He hadn't even a moment to consider washing his hands. He had just run. They didn't give him a chance to explain himself. They thought he had killed them both.

Ricardo Santiago had gone from humble son and hard-working vaquero to a criminal in a matter of moments.

It was a miracle he had escaped. If he was grateful to be alive, he would've thanked God perhaps. Whether he would listen or not was yet another question.

The setting sun seemed to set the white sand on fire. Far off, it looked as if the ground was moving like water. Thankfully he had kept his hat through the rush of escaping. Otherwise, he would have been in a slightly worse spot. Every bit helped at this point.

He glanced to his left, his eyes widening as he spotted a small cactus protruding from the ground, its pink blossoms standing out like drops of paint on a blank canvas.

He lumbered towards it as fast as he possibly could, and tore the pink fruits off the plate-like leaves of the plant.

They poked him, burning his flesh like hundreds of little bee stings. But the fury in his stomach made him ignore them. Even as they stuck to his mouth, his tongue, his throat- hundreds of them that felt like he was swallowing mini chollas.

But the flesh and juice of the fruit were too much to resist in the middle of the desert, nearing seventy-six hours in.

But when he opened his eyes, his blood-red hands made him scream. The liquid covered them completely, running down his forearms like crooked little rivers, dripping to the ground like a loose faucet.

He sank to his knees, red saliva dripping from his burning mouth, his wrists planted against his forehead, his eyes squeezed closed, sucking back up the drool that dangled from his lip.

They looked as if he had just stabbed a man... again. Covered in blood. He regretted it at that moment. For the first time, he wished he hadn't killed him.

"What else was I supposed to do," he screamed, leaning his head to the sky, "He murdered her, he murdered my only sister!"

He fell to his side, tucking his knees against his chest as he screamed every curse word he knew in Spanish through gritted teeth. But as the sun slipped behind the mountains, as the cold white light of the moon spilled over the land, as the stars faded into existence like a million bullet holes breaking through the silent dark sky to some light on the other side, he did thank God that he was still alive.

And he promised himself that he would survive.