"Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand." - Revelation of St. John the Divine, v. 6

It was night in the desert, and cold. All was black on the ground, fading to that singular blue and a sky full of shameless stars. The moon was full, but it seemed little light penetrated the dessicated valley between mountains and beneath plateaus. Somewhere, a lonely coyote cried. Creatures who avoided the deadly sun skittered across stones. There were few sounds; these only, and the steady crushing clop of heavy hoofbeats, slowing.

The horse and rider stopped beneath an elegantly carved stone arch - carved by time, by ageless elements - carved as only God and nature can. The wind blowing through the butte was cold. Not cool, but cold. Bone chilling. There was no midway in the desert. This unforgiving landscape was Hell-hot and sunbaked during the day, and unforgiving arctic chill in the evening. The rider was well-equipped for the harshness.

Clad as black as the night - head to toe - a thick, weathered duster protecting and midnight hat hiding eyes that sought justice4 and a mysterious and dark bandanna defending facade. This rider couldn't be called pale, Stygian as the murky Styx. And the horse? The same, or more moonless.

He was a pitch stallion. 20 hands high by the least generous measurement. His mane glowed, moved like oil in the moon's lamp. His tail perched tall. But most notable was the demon's eyes - red. Alight with fire. No ordinary horse.

No ordinary rider.

Beneath the arch, cupped by the cold butte, the rider dismounted easily. This was a fine enough place to camp. Saddle bags rang. Bivouak was simple: on a clear night - bedroll and fire. There was enough tinder at hand. Tumbleweeds trapped by cacti. Easily broken to nest a flame.

Thick leather gloves revealed hands weathered by travel, by hardship. Quick hands. They fumbled hardtack and jerky into a meal. This life of hardship knew no luxury, but was quick to enjoy it when provided. Water from a canteen ran low. There would need to be a spring soon. But there was a town close by, and that would do to re-fuel horse and rider. And possibly even purpose.

The rider was a bounty hunter. Heaven sent to restore rare grace; or the Devil's own red right hand. Six gun strapping. Nearing six feet tall. Quiet as the hawk flies and as swift. If there was money to be made in the next village, there would be a poster to collect. The sheriff. The bank. The post post office. Train stations. These were the places displaying the faces of the earth's notorious scum - prices on the heads of murderers, robbers, rapists. Less people - more pelf.

And a successful collector - such as this one - had a horse singing with the jingle of gold and silver coin.

A tanned hand curiously caressed a random skull, scattered by predator. Bleached by the bastard sun. Coyote? Eyes blackened by night studied the bone structure. Too small. A fox, then. Set upon a nearby stone, it watched over the tiny camp.

The rider was tired. Days had passed since El Paso. Since the last bounty was collected. And the desert gave no respite. But train tracks - spotted a day earlier - promised civilization soon. And civilization promised hot meals, baths, beds and opportunity.

Every bounty was opportunity, true. But there were three bullets in a pouch pressed tight to this hunter's heart, suspended on a soft leather cord. Three bullets custom-carved like the painted desert plateau. Three bullets patiently waiting to find the name etched upon each one. Three bullets driving harder than thousands in gold and silver. Bespoke revenge. Bounties from beyond any mere mortal bank.

Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still

Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still

Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still

The rider's lullabye played on the whistling desert wind. Hat tilted over face. Back on solid ground. Boots crossed, spurs tucking. Wool a cursed cocoon. Sleep was quick, and deep. No rest for the wicked, but for the reaper of the wicked souls...repose.

Even the coyotes quieted tonight. Occasionally the chuckle of an elf owl, echoing amongst saguaros. The breath of the massive horse. There was more peace in the desert than in the heart of any mankind, and the bounty hunter's heart was no exception.

Morning broke the night's cold spell with immediate heat. As soon as any sun peaked over mesas, began the day of desperation. A coffee pot right into the fire's embers.The rider took the liquid black. No surprise. Bivouak packed onto horse's back, they prepared to take to the trail. Less than a mile west, train tracks glimmered - but not a mirage. A promise of civilization - of possibility. They followed the iron rails from a distance. Already the desert sent its dust swirling.

The horse was unbothered. Red eyes glistened in the unforgiving sun. They pushed on by painted plateaus, through innumerable buttes until trail became less trail and more eroded stone. And here - in the most unlikely of locations - a crossroad.

The faded sign - words burned into worn wood - forked only two directions. East: Grenadine. West: Purgatorio.

The choice was quick and clear. A tisk against teeth. Jerk of the reigns. The black mass of horse and hunter as one turned west.