Stranger in the Sand
He woke up on the hot, dry desert sand. His chest was bleeding.
He couldn’t remember his name, nor how he got there. He looked down—his left hand gripped a revolver, etched with intricate markings. None of them were in English—or any language he recognized. Maybe just scribbles?
It felt heavy in his hand. Could it be that he’d been shot? he wondered.
He gently pulled the hammer back. It was loose—too loose. Worn down? Or something else?
He opened the cylinder. No bullets.
He couldn’t tell if that relieved him or made him more uneasy. As he peered through the barrel, he saw it was spotless—cleaner than any freshly bought gun. As if someone had polished it every day, without fail. Like a plate after a hard day’s supper.
He got carried away.
Looking at the bottom of the grip, he noticed two things: five notches, lined up in a row. And the initials: K.C.
He tried to stand, but the wound in his chest was too severe. So he lay there. As he stared up at the sky, he watched birds soaring freely—no wounds, no worries. And probably able to remember their names.
One bird caught his eye. It was beautiful. Familiar, somehow. Yet just like his name, he couldn’t recall what kind it was. It circled above, swooped low, and cawed—as if happy to see him. It landed a few feet away, cleaned its feathers, cocked its head at him, then flew back into the sky.
Then, all of a sudden—BOOM!
The same bird he’d been watching for what felt like hours fell from the sky and landed beside him.
Ironic. The very creature he’d envied, now lay wounded—dead—just like him.
Seconds later, a man rode up in a horse-drawn wagon. He dismounted quickly and ran toward the fallen rider.
“Oh, are you okay, sir? Aw, what am I sayin’—you got a bullet in ya! I didn’t cause that, did I?”
The Rider shook his head, trying to speak—but blood bubbled from his lips instead of words.
“No worries, sir—I’ll get you to a doctor!”
The man lifted him carefully. The Rider groaned in agony, coughing more blood onto the man’s ragged, worn suspenders.
He rushed to the wagon and laid The Rider in the back. Dried blood stained the boards—likely from deer or some other big game.
“I’m Isaiah, by the way,” the man said.
The Rider nodded faintly and rested his head back.
Isaiah jumped into the driver’s seat, took the reins, and cracked the whip.
“Hiyah!”
The wagon rolled toward a nearby town
