At night the desert lost all its jagged edges. The sharp crests of rock and leaning cacti disappeared beneath a blanket of darkness, leaving the stars as the only break in the black. The fire cast a flickering pocket of light, but even that was not enough to distinguish his surroundings more than a few feet. Which was fine with Jones. As far as he was concerned, the stars were the only view he was interested in.

He lay on his back with his hands behind his head. A thin blanket was his only protection against the hard ground, but he’d had worse beds. He could hear Paloma’s shifting hooves, accompanied by low snuffling as the horse settled herself a few meters away. The pot over the fire had been scraped clean, and the stew warming his belly was lulling him into a satisfied haze.

A sigh slipped out. Jones reached up with one lazy finger to tip his hat down over his eyes, warding off an unpleasant sunny awakening in the morning. Moments like this made the rest all worth it, he thought. He wriggled down further, ignoring the prick of stones against his back.

Nights like this were why he kept running.

Then, the snap of a twig, startlingly close. Too close to have come from his horse.

Jones’ eyes shot open and he came face to face with the barrel of a gun pointing at his face.

“Get up.”

The gruff voice made Jones stiffen. The pistol retreated just enough to give him room to lean up on his elbows, and no further. Jones lifted a cautious hand, tilting his hat back so he could see better.

“Evening Sheriff,” he said coolly. The flickering orange firelight illuminated the metal badge, but it was the bristling moustache that identified his attacker. That, and steely glint in the other man’s eyes.

Silently Jones cursed himself. He’d let down his guard. He’d known the Sheriff was stubborn, but even so he’d foolishly thought he’d given up weeks ago.

This is where his mistake got him. On the wrong end of a barrel.

“Henry Jones,” said the Sheriff, “you’re coming back with me, where you’ll face trial for the murder of Lucy Higgins. Get up.”

Jones swallowed the lump in his throat. “I didn’t kill her Sam.”

“Get. Up.”

The gun was looking mighty unsteady in the man’s hand. Jones scrambled to his feet, raising his hands in surrender. Suddenly the light of the fire was no comfort. The leaping flames made him think instead of the fires of hell, red and unforgiving. Just waiting to lick the flesh from his bones.

But he was getting ahead of himself. Hell came later. First, there was the noose.

Jones grit his teeth hard. “Sam, you’ve gotta’ believe me. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

The Sheriff didn’t answer. Just gestured with his gun.

Jones walked with his heart in his chest towards Paloma, with the other man shadowing each step. Now that he was fully awake, he could see another shape in the darkness, the hulking, tail-swishing shadow of another horse. There was a coil of rope on the saddle. The sheriff took it down and tossed it towards Jones.

“Tie your hands.”

“Please. You know me. We were friends once.”

“Quit your mouthing before I shoot you right now.”

“You wouldn’t.”

There was a silence while the man’s shoulders slumped. He had the air of a man who was tired.

“You killed my daughter, Henry.

Eyes flashing in the darkness, Sheriff Higgins raised his pistol higher, pointing it directly between Jones’ eyes. This time the man’s hands were steady.

“Just you try me.”