“That’s him,” I whispered.

Little Brother leapt from behind the trough and cinched the rope around the man’s neck. Dust clouds plumed up from the scuffling of boots on the hard dirt. The whoreman’s eyes bulged heavenward, as if praying the Almighty would intercede. His indigo face blent into the purple sky. A string of saliva dangled from his tongue like wasted seed dripping from the pizzle of a spent bull.

* * *

Our journey unfolded with no great misfortune, though I had a premonition one was due. We traversed torrid Saturnal rings, mysterious shadows hued in ochre and gray, spreading across the sand in wide circles. Dry winds burned our throats and we drank more water than allotted, having miscalculated the demands of our venture.

Come sundown, we made camp and took stock of our hasty rations. The feed bags were a quarter full and our comestibles about the same—the canteens near empty.

“Lucky if we make it back to Edgers City,” I said, stacking brush for the fire.

Brother struck a match against his boot heel and lit the kindling. “We’re not goin’ back.”

“Who knows how much farther lies the sea, if even there is one? I spy no hint of a rainbow in these parched skies.”

He spat and quietly stoked the fire.

“Admit it, Brother. We’re on a fool’s journey. If Augur’s women exist, death surely lies ahead.”

“Death always lies ahead. Come to your senses, Marcus. Those gals are but metaphors. That’s what stories are made of.”

“But what if it’s so?”

“Then it’s so. There’s nothin’ for us back home ’cept a spent quarry and a sad life for two orphans. I rather we die in the desert.”

“I rather we don’t.”

“Cheer up. I smell the sea.”

“What’s it smell like?”

“It don’t smell like desert.”

’Twas useless reasoning with him.

* * *

“Let up on the rope.”

He pulled harder, the tendons in his arms taut like harp strings.

“Stop, you’ll kill him.”

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