The man rode with dogged persistence, the sun blazing with fire on his shoulders and back. Streaks of sweat made wet trails down his face as they cut through the layers of dust that coated him. He rode with a singular purpose, singular thought, though his consuming bitterness did not blind him to all else.

He was well aware it was through Indian country he was riding, and that danger could come from any direction, at any time. The buckskin beneath him was tired, his steps even but slow, and his head drooped now, instead of held proudly high. Behind him, the pinto mare was dragging also. Patting the gelding's neck raised a plume of dust from the horse's hair.

"A couple miles 'til sundown, then we'll stop. Give me a couple more miles, Taw." The gelding's name was Tawny, but almost never did the rider use it, the shortened name easier.

The gelding flicked a weary ear at him but did not otherwise seem to notice. They had been riding for months, through blistering, scorching heat, through thunderstorms, hail, flash floods and pouring rain, and still, they were behind. Hundreds of miles lay behind them, from southern California, all the way through Mexico to the coast then back up north into Texas they'd ridden. Their quarry escaped them in El Paso, but the man had caught the trail and followed it northwest then back south into Arizona Territory.

He'd caught up again in Phoenix, but again, the man slipped through his fingers. Now they were headed southeast once more, back toward the desert wastelands of Mexico, by way of the vastness of south Texas. The man in the saddle was lean, the long months of riding making him tough, weather-bitten, hungry for an end to the pursuit.

He'd made his quarry's life impossible, following wherever he went and the hunted man was forced to ever keep on the move, or risk being caught. The chase had become a thing known, and wherever Hel Morgan went, people stopped and looked, pointing and whispering. He was after the man who freed Duke Fisher, who had killed two innocent people to keep the marshal blind to the escape plan.

Luke Skye was kin to Fisher, and he'd kept it secret, coming into the marshal's town and getting hired on as deputy. He'd fooled everyone and would likely have gotten away with it but for that he stayed in town after Fisher was free. It all came to a sudden tragic head the morning Elizabeth Morgan was killed, and her husband had waited until after the funeral to start his pursuit, but he'd kept at it.

For two years he'd kept at it, and Morgan showed no indication he was growing weary. They knew what he was doing, and none blamed him but all pitied him. The man who killed his wife was always one step ahead, but the former soldier, the tough and steady ex-marshal refused to give up, and would not back down from the chase. And now, despite the nearly choking heat and ever-present cloud of dust he smiled, hatred gleaming in his hard green eyes. A thin, waving trail of dust was on the horizon in front of him. He was catching up.

The sun was setting below the horizon when Morgan stopped and made dry camp. He knew there was water, but it was still farther ahead, and probably where Skye was making camp. It didn't bother Morgan at all, for he had the two canteens, and with careful rationing, he would have plenty for the horses and himself. He stripped the two, rubbing them down gently, talking to them then picketed them out on dry grass. He made a small fire from dried wood, not caring if it were seen or not. He had become more battle ready, more eager for a fight than in all his years before. Skye knew he was back here, and likely any Indians in the country already knew it too, so hiding was a waste of energy.

He made coffee, boiled some beans fried some bacon and ate, all in the time it took the sun to vanish, leaving the sky above him black, dotted with countless pin pricks of light. The desert air cooled rapidly and grateful for his blankets Hel rolled into them, looking up, watching the occasional streak of a shooting star. Beth had loved the night sky, often standing close to him in the dark, looking up, leaning her head against his chest.

Morgan physically shook his head to dispel the memory, unable to think of her without a sharp pain in his chest still. She had died the morning after he'd left, after a bitter and foolish quarrel. It had all seemed so important and life-changing, up until his life had changed permanently, and hers had ended. Grunting softly Hel settled down beneath his blankets, his fingers around the stock of his rifle, just in case, and shortly he was asleep.

Dawn found him in the saddle, the horses rested and watered, and he'd had a light breakfast and coffee. Now, while the air was still cool and the horses' fresh, he rode quickly, straight across the sand and dirt. Four miles later found him kneeling at the edge of a small spring, refilling his canteens and watering the horses. Fresh tracks plainly indicated his prey had been here up until an hour ago, and he'd left in a hurry. Hel rose to his feet, looking off the way Skye had gone, and he chuckled, a mirthless, stony sound. He was close, and Luke knew it.

The four miles had allowed the sun to make heat waves begin to shimmer around him, causing the flat, dry land to look like distant lakes, beckoning to unwary travelers. Though only an hour after sunrise, it was hot, the air thick with dust and sand. Hel rode slowly, sparing the horses, but staying on the trail. It was leading due south, deep into Apache land, but Morgan didn't hesitate.

His only worry was the Indians would get to Skye before he could, though they would likely be more merciful. That thought had barely registered in his mind when a whiff of an arrow blew past his ear and Hel instantly kicked the gelding into a gallop, Mescalero braves rising from the ground itself around him.

There were a dozen of them and Taw wasted no time in flying away, the lead rope taut as he nearly dragged the mare behind him. Morgan kept his gun in its holster, though he shucked the rifle from its bucket, glancing back once from over his shoulder. The men were running behind, but could not hope to keep pace with a horse running flat out.

Morgan ran the gelding for as long as he dared, but knew he was in no way out of danger. The Apache were master fighters, living and breathing the desert. They would catch up to him, and Hel did not relish the thought of what a fight that would be. He had other plans.

He slowed the horses after a while grimly noting the froth flying from their lips, the slick lather on their bodies. They had to have rest or they'd drop, he'd be dead and Skye would go free. Reluctantly he turned them toward a prominent outcropping of rocks that would offer shade and some protection. There might even be water there.

Looking down into the dirt, Hel smiled. He wasn't the only one who'd headed this way, likely with the same thought. Moving with care, Taw suddenly sensing his tension, Morgan quietly approached the sheltering stone. His sharp eyes saw nothing, but his finger on the trigger did not move, Skye was here, he could feel it!

He reached the shade of the stone without mishap and slipped from the saddle, staying low, picketing the horses beneath a towering stone ledge. Hel moved on Indian feet, noiseless, careful, going deeper into the scattering of boulders. He heard the water before he saw it, the smell of green grass hitting his senses. His strategic mind was already calculating, setting up a plan for defense, because Morgan knew the Apache braves would be upon him before dark, especially if he stayed here. They would want the horses for food, and the guns.

A subtle scraping warned him, the trickle of sand disturbed underfoot falling from the edge of a flat boulder. Hel threw himself to one side, hitting the ground rolling as belching thunder blasted from less than twenty feet away. He scrambled to a cul-de-sac of stone and heaved himself over, laying still, his grip on the rifle secure.

"Almost had you Hel!" Luke's mocking call echoed from close by. "You'da been dead if I wanted!"

"You should have put me down Skye, I'll not show you any mercy!" Hel retorted.

From a different location Luke chuckled.

"You have to come out of hiding first Marshal! But you won't do that, will you? You want to kill me, not risk getting killed yourself,"

Hatred built up in Morgan until he was so full of it he couldn't think clearly. Rolling to his feet he leapt over the ring of stones and rushed toward the voice, moving so quickly it caught Skye off guard. His first shot missed completely, screaming harmlessly off the rocks, and the second was too late, Hel's lean body vanishing beyond a shadowed outcropping less than ten feet from where Luke was hidden.

The young man suddenly found himself frowning, concerned. That had been a suicide move, but Hel Morgan hadn't hesitated. A man who acts that way isn't predictable, and it made Luke nervous. He suddenly wished he hadn't stopped here, he should have kept going. As if in answer to his thoughts, Hel's deep voice carried across the distance.

"No cocky words boy? No taunts for me?" here Morgan's voice betrayed some of the hatred he held inside him. "You make your peace with God boy, cause it's all you're gonna get!"

Luke Skye never considered himself a coward. He was smart, and he valued his own life more than anyone else's, but he was reckless, and slightly arrogant. His speed with the draw was faster than Hel's, he knew that, but his accuracy wasn't as good, which he knew also. He began to look at his hole card, and realized he didn't like the odds. Luke was about to snake away when he became conscious he'd heard absolutely nothing for several minutes, and that was not right.

The insects had even ceased moving, and that was warning enough. He started to scramble backward but too late! Morgan rose from the ground just in front of him, rising from scrub brush hardly more than ten inches high, but more than enough for an Indian approach.

"Take a good look Skye," Morgan spat the words. "It's over!"

Luke started to go for his gun, keenly aware his life would not extend long if Morgan beat him to the draw. With a snarl of rage Hel threw himself forward, his iron grip locking around Luke's right wrist as his shoulder plowed into the lighter man. They went down in a cloud of dust and Morgan gained his feet first. He grabbed Luke by the shirt front, dragging him off the ground and whirling around he slammed the younger man into the face of a large boulder. Luke grunted breath forced from his lungs as he hit the wall.

Nothing was there to protect him from Hel's fury as the larger man began to rip him apart, tearing into his body with hardened fists. Luke tried to roll aside, to fold over and protect his belly and chest, but Morgan would not let him, pummeling him back against the stone with fury and merciless bloodlust. With punishing, sledgehammer blows he tenderized the man's torso and belly, feeling ribs crack beneath the power of his fists. All the rage and grief that had been bottled up inside him for two years came bursting out in a berserk fit of insanity.

Luke was near collapse when Morgan finally backed away, breathing hard, eyes blazing with hatred. It filled the beaten man with terror when he realized Morgan had deliberately left his face undamaged. Suddenly he wondered what horrors Hel had planned for him, imagining all sorts of torments visited upon him by the enraged ex-marshal. Even as he was dragged upright Morgan suddenly let go, dropping him back into the dust looking away. Confused, relieved, Luke started to crawl away, but a heavy foot landed square on his back, pinning him to the dirt.

"You think I'm bad, you go and lay out a welcome wagon for the Mescalero."

"What?" the word was a gasp, disbelief and fear.

"I outran a group on the way over here. Seems like they've decided to pay a visit. You want to live, we have to work together. You want to die, I'll pull out and make a run for it alone, and leave your carcass for them to play with."

"Does it matter which?" Luke was panting, for pain had returned with full force to his battered and bruised innards.

"It does. I promise to kill you quick, with the Apache," Morgan stared at him, "it could take days, and not easy days."