Small herds of Drifters were avoided by taking wide, careful berths, trying not to attract undue attention from the creatures that were once human, mingling and making stuttering, awkward steps this way and that. Mint Creek headed in a general northerly direction, the clear waters trickling along at a sedate pace as they entered Williamson's Valley. Undulating, wide open spaces broken only by knolls of boulders and grass, with the occasional stand of trees to break the beautiful monotony.

A few miles further up the valley, Annie had told him, the small town of Simmons sat. A lone bastion of civilisation within an area of nothing. They passed a number of abandoned homesteads, fences broken, cabins left to ruin and the elements. Once homes to families that could no longer stand against the never-ending attentions of the dead. Families that had either joined the hordes of shambling monsters, or now sat huddled and safe behind high walls in places like Prescott. The land returning to nature, as it once was.

"How long have you searched for Shipton and his gang?" His lapse into morose introspection had not left Henry. It still remained, but he fought against it the only way he knew how; by asking questions. "The Potter massacre happened some years ago, now. Have you searched for them all this time?"

Annie stopped chewing the strip of salted beef, lowering her hand to the pommel of her saddle, and pursed her lips, head and eyes raising to the heavens, where wisp-like clouds drifted upon winds, high above. She hadn't shown much reticence to answer his questions, so far, and wondered if, and when, that could change, should he ask the wrong ones.

After a pause, her jaw began to move once more and she gave a little nod. With a cough and an adjustment in her riding position, she turned toward him and he caught a weariness in her gaze. At first, he thought she would turn away, fail to answer him about something that she appeared to hold dear to her heart. Then, she released a sigh, edging her horse closer to his.

"Long time." Another, slower nod and Henry noticed her hand reaching back to touch the shaft of her pitchfork, slung by the leather strap around her chest. "Chased 'em from here to Mexico, Texas, the New Mexico territory and back here. Long time."

Henry wished he could write in his notebook and ride at the same time. The steady, sleep-inducing roll of the horse beneath him precluded that, not that he hadn't tried on days gone. All it left him with were incoherent scribbles and meandering thoughts that made little sense upon re-reading. He had taken to writing in the quiet moments and realised he should have written some of what they experienced, earlier. One look at a hand that still shook told him that wouldn't have worked.

Much had happened since leaving Prescott and he had only made the merest addendums to his notes and that would not do at all. This, all of it, was important. It needed recording. From the information about the Yavapai nation, to the homestead where the unnamed member of Shipton's gang had turned. Granite Peak, with its community of Skinchangers and their methods of self-binding. And Hennessy. He still hadn't written anything about the bites upon Annie's body, her lupus affliction and whether that had stopped her from turning. So much to relate and he had written close to nothing.

"I suspect it has been quite the frustration, knowing that these men continued to live their lives, free of a rightly deserved justice?" He had to tread carefully among these difficult quarters. He couldn't afford to say the wrong thing and lose the centre of his story. "Did you ever consider ending the chase? I mean, not now, that much is clear. You have seen that long awaited justice fall upon two of those foul men for their egregious sins, and rightly so, but ... did you ever consider turning aside? To return to some semblance of normality? Find a husband? Start a family?"

Her horse snorted, rearing its head and flailing it, trying to give itself a little freedom from the reins that had tightened as Annie had listened to Henry. Her gaze remained locked upon distant hills and fields, not looking to either side. After a second, or so, she gave the horse a little more rein, her shoulders drooping from the tightness that had gripped them of a sudden. Henry felt he had pushed a little too far. Speaking of a husband and a family. He would curse himself, were she not so close. Always one more question to ask. Always followed by one more. Too many questions, sometimes.

"This's my normality. Don't need nothin' else in my life. Don't want nothin' else." With an absent-minded hand, she eased the shotgun in its sling, then the Winchester on the other side, then the Colt at her hip. Like a practiced check of her arsenal. "Don't take to men no more, so no husband. An' family ain't nothin' but a down payment on heartache."

Henry could almost feel the pain within her words, her voice drifting away to silence, her head drooping, the brim of her hat shadowing her face. He felt a great swell of pity for the woman that appeared, at all other times, like someone who had no fears, no emotions to speak of. Such a strong woman with absolute control over herself and her environment. In his fumbling attempts to glean more information, he had made that façade crack.

His relentless pursuit of the truth had proven his downfall more than once. A colleague had died because Henry had asked them to research a particularly vicious criminal. He had ruined the lives of politicians, their families, reputations, by revealing a specific truth about them. Not in any malicious way, but because he believed, with his entire being, that the people deserved the truth. Sometimes, he despised himself for that.

"I'm sorry." It felt poor recompense for digging too far into Annie's past. He wished he could regret it. "If ... if you are Annabelle Potter, then you had a family in the past. Does that inform your stance now?"

He clamped his eyes closed, turning his head to the side, away from Annie. He couldn't stop himself. Had he a cane, he would beat himself for his words, but he would still ask. He had no alternative. Nothing else of his own except his unassailable curiosity and his talent for stringing words together in a way that others found compelling. He saw no need to look at Annie, to see her pain as he waited her answer.

No answer came. He opened his eyes, expecting to see her glaring at him, but she had turned her horse away, heading toward a Drifter that had wandered close to the creek. Alone, wearing only the tattered remains of a pair of long-johns, the flap at the back unbuttoned and open, the Drifter spied Annie and began the expected hiss and gurgle as it locked upon its prey. It only had half-a-face, the other half revealing the bone of its skull, maggots crawling in the ragged, putrid flesh.

Annie kicked her leg over the neck of her horse, dropping to the ground and the Drifter lunged toward her. Henry could never get used to that change in speed. Its fingers scratched across Annie's vest, broken edges of its nails catching the material. It looked as though it had the advantage, pressing toward Annie, its jaws snapping at her face, but her forearm, pressed against its throat, held it back.

The Drifter's flailing hands caught Annie's hat, sending it spinning to the ground, where it rolled for several feet before wobbling to a stop. Her burned, auburn hair cascaded against her back, strands falling across her face and still she held the creature off instead of finishing it. She hadn't even tried to reach her revolver, or her knife and, in this close proximity, had little chance of taking her pitchfork from about her neck and chest.

Instead, she continued to hold the Drifter at bay, allowing those filthy, broken teeth in fetid gums to snap ever closer to her face. One of the creature's fingernails caught the skin upon her cheek, causing a trickle of blood to trail toward her chin and that only enraged the monster even more. Upon his horse, Henry could not help but feel he had caused this. That his questions had pushed Annie to such a foolish endeavour.

"For the love of God, Annie! Kill the thing!" He shifted in his saddle, leaning forward, not that that could help in the slightest. "Kill it!"

With a flip of her arm, gripping the creature's shoulder, she turned until it faced away from her. She had complete control the entire time. Now, with its flailing, waving arms held by hers beneath its armpits, its head whipping and twisting, still trying to reach her flesh, she forced it forward until she stood only three feet away from Henry and his horse. A horse that now stomped its feet, pulling at the reins.

"You kill it. Ain't seen ya kill nothin'. Don't know if ya got it in ya." Her eyes locked upon his, teeth bared in a mockery of the creature held on her arms. "Get off ya damned horse and kill it! And with the knife, not the gun. You reach for that iron, I'm lettin' it go."

She meant it. Every word. Henry realised he'd poked a bear with a pencil and now had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. His questions, the proverbial pencil, had stirred something nasty within Annie and he didn't doubt she would do exactly what she threatened. He felt a sweat breaking that felt not a little similar to how he had felt in the presence of Hennessy and his foot caught in the stirrup as he readied to dismount.

A gunshot made him pause in his descent. It echoed and bounced around making the direction the sound had come from difficult to ascertain. The Drifter knew. Its head snapped to the north, almost tearing its neck as it turned. It tried to rip itself free of Annie, the loud, still reverberating sound seeming to take precedence in what remained of the creature's mind.

As though as an afterthought, Annie released the Drifter, but only for a short while. Her shining knife appeared in her hand and she plunged it hard and deep into the skull of the creature. It fell to the ground mid-step and Annie leaned over to wipe her blade on the Drifter's long-johns. With a look that told Henry she wasn't done with him, she picked up her hat, put away the knife and bounded into her saddle as another gunshot cracked in the thick air.