Gunshot burst of the knot showered embers, which danced up into the night. Play of the flames was hypnotic, and deep shadows wavered, but settled back to their slow ballet. Gentle warmth held the cool desert night back, though it waited for the fire to fade. Last taste of water died away. Its precious redemption was best saved though. Over the skin a low wind scoured. Fine grit dug into clothes. Embers swirled up into the dark to die.

Cassidy studied the blackened wood, where fire traced its edges. Eyes like dawn over the desert rifled. Under a Joshua tree, he had made camp, but elusive was sleep. Beyond the light his gaze returned, just to see the murk stilled. Nothing he insisted, yet the mind persisted in its ephemeral assertions. Past the light, outside reason, the world held a life that he denied. All had an explanation, yet stories always arose, unexplainable yet undeniable. Man of thought, he had believed everything had an explanation. Precious Caroline had faith, but the War of Rights had weakened any faith he'd ever possessed. Had he seen something? No, Cassidy repeated once again, if only inside.

Any and every reason was proffered. Cassidy pushed the memory away, for it was done. If anything was bereft of evidence, was it true? Matters of others' belief were never his concern, though that was the realm of madness. Could the mad man be an observer, who only wanted someone, anyone, to believe their ravings? Such questions hung about the great silences through the days.

Again, he asked if it was real; thumb turned the revolver's cylinder. Boom, the shot swept over the scrub, and more followed in a rapid succession. To his feet Cassidy flew, gun in hand. A hard grin drew up lips into a smile of a wolf accustomed to a hunt. Eyes searched, but through the dark cries of pain rose. Without thought, he stood with spring steel muscles. Out in the desert, led only by pitiful shrieks, ran the bounty hunter. Pleas lingered and threats abounded, each drew him to the source. Odd yip, a fox, was agitated yet afraid. More gunfire broke over the dark, laments silenced. Deep shadows hid in the darkness, which swam past him as Cassidy pursued the sounds of pain.

Glimmer of another campfire seized the eyes, island in a sea of black. A silence filled time between each footfall. Too late, he thought, taste of spit sour in the throat. Hateful words rose full of terror, and Cassidy heard a baby whimper. "No," the bounty hunter spit at the night, and threw himself at growing flames that consumed part of the camp. Faces of his dead children floated to his mind, followed by his wife's dark hair.

Over a baby, a desperado bared teeth in a mindless fury. One hand held an odd medallion. The hammer cocked on the revolver, snap like brittle bone. Barrel of the gun lowered, and to Cassidy's horrified rage, it turned on the child. Although he only looked at the infant, a terrorized madness devoured the desperado's mind.

"Death comes for you, cur!" Cassidy burst into the light, gun at the ready.

The desperado turned, surprised, and the revolver shifted from the baby. He cursed, threw himself away from the light, but fired back at Cassidy. The mad man looked at the baby as if it would pursue. Dark fluid soaked the man poncho, which had been stained with blood. Terror threatened to take the remnants of his mind, urine pooled in his boots. He was told to strike before they could react, bushwhack the unsuspecting tribes-people. Luckily, he had gotten the medallion, which would protect him.

At the light's edge Cassidy stopped, cries of the child halted him. Darkness conspired to hide the man, who fled out into the desert. The assassin's fear had lessened, when it had fell on him, but the bounty hunter could only pray their paths met again. Only a mad man would fear a mere baby over a man such as Cassidy.

The chubby tot looked at Cassidy, who gazed down at him. Skin dark as oiled cedar, his tone was lighter than the others. About the camp he looked, but picked up the infant. Others of his tribe looked surprised, ambush took them fast. They were shot in the back. Assassins, armed to take on any army, were strewn about. Dark, viscus fluid ran down the killers' cheeks with dead, black worms about the mouths. None of the executioners were shot, or even sustained blow of any stripe. A frown creased Cassidy's brow. Had the sickness made them go mad? Away from the infected bodies he withdrew, and the question hung.

"What happened here?" he looked at the baby who smiled. The infant was unharmed, and he let out a long sigh. "You're a handsome little fellow," Cassidy brushed dirt off his face. "I'm sorry I was too late," he looked at the gunmen, "to stop these cowards. I wonder why. It seems…so vile." He never dealt much with the Native People.

He recalled the smoke that rose from his house's ashes, but a fox growled. Cassidy turned to see it look up at him, "Strange eyes…you can't have him either. He turned back to the baby, "I'll call you Gregory. He's a good man, a compatriot. No one will hurt you, I swear," he gazed at the tribes-people, "I'll get you back to your folk." After a moment, he recalled a town was near. The bounty hunter hoped that the local Natives were friendly with the townsfolk.

Little Gregory who found delight in all was fast to laugh, giggle, or beam at everything. Hard grin upon Cassidy's countenance softened. Back at his camp, the bounty hunter used a sling he found at the sacked site to put the baby on his back. Up into the saddle, he was careful with the child.

Over a shoulder he gazed back at Gregory, "We've a bit of a ride. My wife once sang to ease our children. Would you like to hear it?" Cassidy asked, and Gregory grinned.