There Are Specters On My Tail, And I'm All Out Of Bullets
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Four years. That's how long it took Democrats to ruin our economy and plunge our southern border into anarchy. Who helped them hurt us? Ruben Gallego. Washington could have cut taxes for Arizona families, but Ruben blocked the bill. And his fellow Democrats gave a bigger break to the millionaire class in California and New York. They played favorites and cost us billions. And Ruben wasn't done yet.

We'll be right back.

Carrie and the Republicans will secure the border, support our families, and never turn their backs on us. Carrie Lake for Senate. I'm Carrie Lake, candidate for U.S. Senate, and I approve this message. Paid for by Carrie Lake for Senate and the NRSC.

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I place the barrel of my colt against the stripe on her forehead. I take a deep breath, muster up the courage needed and say, "I'm sorry, girl." Then I squeeze the trigger. It breaks my heart, but it was a mercy in the end. We hadn't seen water in three days and the last few cacti we came across had been dry as sticks. There was nothing to forage, and the girl had started to foam at the mouth. She could still stand, but that was for my benefit, I think.

In the end, she had no more to give and I thanked her for being loyal all these years. She was the best horse I ever had, and with the way things are going, she is probably the last horse I'll ever have. I've got maybe four days of hardtack and rattler jerky left, and a half canteen of water. The lack of water will get me before I run out of food, but I ain't afraid of dying of thirst or starvation. Nah, what's really gonna get me are the damn spectres on my tail.

The sun is just cresting over the butte to my back, and I kick sand on the small fire I'd risked lighting. I dug down a couple feet into the sand and dirt so the light would be hidden as much as possible. Ain't my first time being tracked. Just my first time being tracked by folks that is dead. Folks that is dead because of me. With my bedroll strapped to my back, my saddlebags draped over my shoulder, and my Winchester in hand, I set off.

back into the badlands of this goddamn never-ending desert. My goal is to get to the mesa I see due north. From what I could see yesterday in the bright, scorching light of day, the mesa might be 10 miles off. Maybe 15. Possibly 20. But first I need to scale halfway up this butte and have a look-see. The specters gained ground yesterday, because as far as I know, they don't stop to sleep at night. I only stopped because Tammy couldn't go no farther.

Damn, I'll miss that horse. It ain't easy getting up the butte. No animal trails that I can see to follow, so I have to make my own. It's a scrabbling affair, that's for sure. With every six feet I manage to claw my way up, I slide back four. But ain't no one said that Tom Lawson is a quitter. I've been called a coward, which I take offense to because I sure ain't no coward. I've been called a murderer, which I ain't offended by, but I don't rightly agree with the moniker.

I prefer to consider my kills justified as self-defense or just part of the job. Man's gotta make a living. I've been called a whole lot more, from thief to cheat to scoundrel. In my opinion, them's all the same thing. People use too many words for stuff these days.

Now that the newspapers are making it all the way out west, folks want to sound educated, even though half of them can't read and only eavesdrop as someone reads aloud in the saloon or church or barber's. Me? I can read just fine. It helps when you got wanted posters with your name on them. I find a nice perch on the side of the butte and settle in for a second to catch my breath. I ain't as young as I used to be. 35 is long in the tooth out here.

Or anywhere, really. My own parents died when they was 23, leaving me in that Missouri orphanage for most of my young life. That's where I met Hollis Greaves, the first man I killed. With my boots braced on rocks and my ass planted next to a clump of sage, I fish my spyglass for my saddlebag and put it to my eye. Speak of the devil. There's ol' Hollis Greaves now, leading that pack of specters across the desert.

They gained even more ground in the night than I thought. I might have half a day's head start on them, if unlucky. Other than his ghostly pallor, Hollis looks the same as the last day I saw him. I was 12, and it was my last year at the orphanage. Not because I had found a place to go, but because once you was a teenager, you ain't a child in those nuns' eyes. To be honest, I don't think they was real nuns.

Yeah, we called them sister and all that, but they sure didn't act like they were servants of God. No sir, more like they were the devil's concubines, considering how much they enjoyed doling out punishment to us orphans. Hollis was the groundskeeper and he had certain appetites. I'd avoided him for eight years, probably due to the fact I nearly bit off one of his fingers and then burst one of his nuts after he tried to corner me in the spring house. But that was me.

Shut up!

One of my fondest memories is how that sneer faded away as he bled out like a stuck pig. That was my first kill. I'd say it was justified for sure. The sun is getting bright and I'll need to go soon, but I keep watching the pack of specters. I move past Hollis to the twins behind him, Bobby and Billy Nichols. Two cattle rustlers who felt that picking on a lost and hungry kid would be mighty fun.

They offered me a job with their crew, then beat the holy shit out of me every night straight for a month. I slit their throats while they slept, cooked their pistols, stole one of their horses, and never looked back. I didn't even wake up the rest of the crew. That was when I knew I had a talent for putting bastards in their graves. Two more justified killings, as far as I'm concerned. Off to the left of the twins is Marlene Ranger,

Oh, Marlene. A sweet whore from Abilene. She popped my cherry and told me she'd be my special friend. Then my money ran out and she kicked me to the dirt. Literally. She walked me outside that brothel, gave me a kiss on my forehead, then turned me around and kicked me so hard I went flying halfway out into the road. Right into a pile of horseshit.

When you're spitting out dung and half-digested hay, you tend not to think things through. So, I stood up and shot her in the back of the head when she turned to go back inside. The only reason I recognize her now is that dress she's wearing. It's the same one as that day. Otherwise, she'd just be another faceless whore. It's amazing what a .45 slug will do when it goes in the back of a head and comes out the other side. One more justified killing because she shouldn't have treated me dirty like that.

Behind her is the Bourdain crew. Nasty Hal, Ugly Bill, Stuttering Carl, and that other one, what's his name? Oh yeah, Pissy Logan. That little shit hated me the second I joined the crew. He was the youngest until I showed up. I think he was proud to be so young and riding with a bunch of robbers and thieves. I was just happy to get fed and have a place to sleep where no one was gonna mess with me.

He called me ungrateful and lazy. I called him dead when I drew and put two in his chest. The rest of the crew didn't like that, so I had to put one between each of their eyes. I weren't gonna waste two in the chest for them boys, since I only had the six shots and didn't want to have to reload. I do feel bad about the crew, sure, but that's what happens when you ride with the snotty shit like pissy. Folks gotta take responsibility for who they associate with.

I'm on the fence on whether or not killing the crew is justified, but I ain't lost no sleep over killing pissy. Bringing up the rear is the entire population of Halo, Arizona. Don't bother looking it up on a map. The place don't exist no more. Not after I burned it to the ground.

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$5 first deposit required. Bonus issued is non-withdrawable bonus bets which expire seven days after receipt. Restrictions apply. See terms at sportsbook.fanduel.com. Gambling problem? Call 1-800-NEXT-STEP or text NEXTSTEP to 53342. It was a small town, just a general store, a horse stable, a hotel with a saloon, a church, and a jail. They hadn't even bothered putting up a schoolhouse yet. Might have been 30 folks that lived there with another 20 spread out over the landscape surrounding the town.

I'd been hired to scare them off for some mining company out there looking for silver. The way I figured, no one is more scared than when their town's on fire. I worked all through the night, digging pits and trenches, setting clay pots here and there along with bundles of hay in just the right spots. That was a Saturday night, and folks was either in bed or getting drunk in the saloon, so no one paid me much mind even if they happened to see me out and about.

The next morning, when they was all in church, I lit the first trench. I'd set it up so those pits and trenches were connected one way or another. So when that lamp oil went up in the first trench, it was just a matter of minutes before the rest of them trenches, then the pits, then the hay, then the clay pots of oil went up in flames. It was mighty pretty until the townsfolk came screaming out of that church. Seeing them burn wasn't as fun.

I was having a lovely time watching the town get surrounded by flames, so all that screaming put a damper on my enjoyment. I had my Winchester by then and decided to do the merciful thing. I shot the women and children first because I'm a gentleman. Then I shot the menfolk because some were getting ideas in their heads that they could fight the flames. One even pointed me out to the others, but I couldn't have that.

That's the bunch. All the specters are trailing me like bloodhounds. Hollis, Marlene, the twins, the Bourdain crew, and the entire town of Halo, Arizona. I'd be flattered if they weren't all dead. I let the spyglass fall from my eye and squint against the bright morning sun. "Who sent you?" I ask out loud. A lizard scurries off to my right and I glance that way. Then I narrow my eyes. Off to the east, I see a dust cloud.

With the spyglass back to my eye, I curse as I realize who it is. The Rankins. I can tell by the coats they wear and the horses they ride. The Rankins is one of the largest private security outfits in the West. My guess is they've been hired by that mining company to track me down and bring me to justice. They probably brokered a deal with the governor of Arizona that their involvement in what happened at Halo wouldn't reflect on them if they brought me in.

I'm making a guess here, but my guess is usually right. That means I got enemies to the south of me and enemies to the east of me. Good thing I'm headed north. I study the side of the butte I'm perched on and see what looks like a manageable route up to the top. Won't be easy, but I can make it if I'm careful. With two groups on my tail, a little high ground would be a good thing.

It takes both hands, which means I have to tie my saddlebags and my Winchester to my bedroll and secure it all tight against my back. That puts me slightly off balance as I scramble my way through the scrub brush and little pines. I'm almost to the top when the barrel of my Winchester gets snagged in the branches of a sage bush. It feels like all I have to do is give a hard tug and it'll come free. Except when I do, the barrel doesn't come free.

Instead, it slides up at a bad angle and then the butt of the rifle gets lodged in the dirt, sort of pinning me to the spot. Slowly, I slide myself out of the pack and get free. But when I turn to retrieve my things, my boots slip and the next thing I know I'm sliding halfway back down that damn butte.

I tear open my left glove when I grab onto a cactus, but that stops my sliding at least. With a bloody palm and more than a few scrapes and bruises, I shift around onto my ass and look out over the landscape. Both groups are even closer now. The specters are close enough that I can see them all looking up at me. That is, the ones with eyes left in their heads. A shout rings out and I turn my attention to the Rankins. Shitfire, they're even closer.

Stands to reason since they're riding horses and ain't a bunch of dead folks shambling on foot. I flip myself onto my belly and crawl my way back up to my pack. I get it freed from the sage bush and keep climbing. I guess it's 20 minutes before I reach the top. I'm drenched in sweat and breathing hard, but I make it. When I find my perfect spot, and it is perfect with equal views of the specters and the Rankins, I lay out my bedroll and line my weapons and ammunition upon it.

I got my Colt .45 and about two dozen rounds. I got my Winchester and about a dozen rounds for that. Last town I was in didn't have rifle cartridges. Or at least, that's what the shopkeeper told me. He could have been lying, but I wasn't gonna press the matter. Not after I spied a US Marshal riding into town. I got the hell out of there fast. That's about when the Spectres started following me. Maybe half a day after I'd left that town I spied them on my trail. It was funny.

I thought they were some religious pilgrims or something, heading out into the wilderness to talk to God like Jesus done. So I didn't pay them much mind. It was when Tammy got nervous that I began to worry. Tammy could smell trouble coming from 10 miles off. I couldn't tell what she was all nervous about, not until the wind shifted and I caught a whiff of what was following me. I took out my spyglass for a better look and nearly pissed myself at the sight.

And no matter what direction I took, what the weather was like, if it was night or day, those specters stayed on my trail. I have no idea when the Rankins took up the chase, from how fast they's moving. I'd say it can't be more than two days, might even be less if they came in by train car first before setting off after me. Two groups, which means I have a choice to make, which one to concentrate on. I'll admit, the specters had me plum terrified.

I don't know a person alive that wouldn't be scared by a mob of dead folk coming for them. But the specters are slower. And truth be told, the few shots I have taken at them didn't seem to do much good. I blew the kneecaps off the preacher from Halo and that dropped him. But even the bullet I put between his eyes didn't seem to quiet him. He just grabbed fistfuls of sand and dirt and pulled himself up after the mob. I wonder. I lift my spyglass and survey the land behind the specters.

It takes me a couple of minutes, minutes I shouldn't be wasting, but I find him. Maybe a mile or two behind the rest, the preacher is still clawing hand over hand this way. A far off shout reaches my ear and I turn my glass to the Rankins. Most of them are pointing right at me. Damn it! They must have spotted the reflection off my spyglass. That was just stupid of me. What was I thinking? A puff of dust kicks up about 20 feet to my left, then a crack rings out.

I adjust my view and find the shooter. A tall man riding in the back of the Rankin Pack. He's got what looks to be a Winchester like mine, except he has a spyglass tied to the top of it. Well, ain't that something. I see his muzzle blaze and I duck down. Sparks and shards of stone explode from a large rock to my right that's about 10 feet off. That son of a bitch is dialing in on my position with that damn spyglass. Okay, you can play this game.

I ain't got no fancy rig, and I ain't about to try to tie my spyglass to my rifle. But what I do have is one hell of a keen eye. Slowly, so I don't kick up no dust for that tall man to zero in on, I slide my way to the very edge of the butte and slip between two sage bushes. With some good cover, I settle the butt of my rifle against my shoulder, lean my cheek to the stock, and line up the sights on that tall man.

He's only a small dot down there, but I can see him. And if his rounds are making it up to me, then my rounds can make it down to him. I slowed my breathing like I was taught by Johnny Feathers, a half-breed I met in Tucson. We rode together for a few months, stealing from ranchers along the border. Poor Johnny took a chest full of buckshot when he tried to steal some milk from the wrong ranch. To think a guy that strong and wild lost his life over a jug of milk.

That's the crazy world we live in. With the tall man in my sights, I squeeze the trigger. Before I even know what the first round has done, I squeeze off two more to either side of the first one. The tall man dodges left, so it's the third round that gets him. I smile as he falls from his horse. More shouts reach me, and I hear pistol fire follow right behind. But the Rankin's is too far for those pistol rounds to hit me. The Idiot's is just wasting ammunition.

I study them again with the spyglass and don't see any more men with rifles. That means I can just pick my targets at random, which is exactly what I do. I'm down to 4 rounds when I'm done shooting. I hit 4 and missed 1. Add in the 3 rounds used up on the tall man and I'm almost out. I set the Winchester aside and grab up my Colt. I don't have the range with the Colt that I do with the Winchester, but that don't mean I can't cause a little chaos.

I send six shots down at the Rankins, putting each shot in front of their posse. My intention is to hit some of them big rocks down there and spook the horses. Or maybe get lucky and take out one of them Rankins with a ricochet. The horses don't get spooked none. They's probably used to gunshots kicking up dirt in front of them. But I hear someone cry out, and I smile at a lucky ricochet. Always playing the angles, a voice says from behind me just after I reload my Colt.

I roll over and fire twice. When the smoke and dust clears, I see him standing there, his hands on his hips. He hasn't even drawn on me. The sun is high enough that I can see his features easily, and my blood goes cold. "Johnny?" I ask. "Wet in tarnation?" "Hey there, Tommy," Johnny Feathers says. "Been a while." "But you's dead," I say. "I saw that rancher put two barrels of buckshot in ya."

And then you high-tailed it out of there before you saw me die," he says. "Left me in the dirt, soaking my own blood in spilt milk." "Sorry?" I reply, not quite sure what to say. I mean, what do you say when a friend you thought was dead is standing a dozen feet away, looking like he ain't dead at all? Then those specters creep into my mind, and I squint up at Johnny. "You the same as them down there?" I ask, and hook a thumb over my shoulder as I slowly get to my feet.

"Nah, I'm livin' and breathin' just like you," he replies. "Not that you'll be doin' either for much longer." "What the hell does that mean?" I ask. "What I do to you, Johnny. We was friends. Close friends." "We was, yeah," Johnny says. His hands are still on his hips, which puts them close to the two pistols he's got holstered, one on each side. "Or I thought."

"What in Judas's hanging tree does that mean?" I ask. "You ain't making sense, Johnny." "Close friends don't leave their friends to die," Johnny says. "They especially don't leave their friends to be tortured by ranchers that don't have much love for my kind." "I thought you was dead!" I snap.

"I weren't," he responds. "Well, I can see that now," I say. "But even if I saw it then, I wasn't going to be able to get to you. Every handle on that ranch came running out of that bunkhouse with iron cock," Johnny shrugs. I keep my eyes on his hands. He ain't as fast as me, but he's fast. I can take him, since I have my pistol in my hand already. But I ain't gonna be cocky about it.

I've seen more than a few good shooters go down because they thought they had the advantage when they didn't. "You're probably wondering what's going on," Johnny says. He nods at my bedroll. "Take a seat, Tommy. I'll tell you a story." I risk a quick glance back over my shoulder at the Rankins. They're almost to the base of the Butte. I whip my head back around, fearing I'll see the black holes of Johnny's barrels. He's just grinning at me, his hands still on his hips.

"Sit, Tommy," he says. "I prefer to stay standing if you don't mind," I say. He shrugs again. "Suit yourself." "Did you send those specters after me?" I ask. "Hold on now," he says with a laugh. "Don't get ahead of yourself. You did, didn't you?" I say and shake my head. "What a rotten thing to do to a fella, Johnny. How'd you do it? You go find yourself some shaman to raise the dead?"

"Nah, Tommy. Their shaman found me," Johnny says. "I was bleeding to death and could barely breathe, but I was still alive when those ranchers were done with me. They dragged me ten miles or so out into the middle of nowhere and strung me up just like what was done to their Jesus." "They crucified you?" I ask. "Damn, that ain't right." Johnny laughs and laughs. "Like you know shit about what's right, Tommy." He points past me.

"Them folks? I believe you told me those murders were all justified." "They was!" I shout. "Every damn one of them!" "Then why are they following you, Tommy?" he asks, and raises his eyebrows so high his hat tilts back on his head. "How the hell should I know?" I shout. "You're the one messing with shamans and raising the goddamn dead, so you tell me!" "I will if you'd shut up," he says, and his smile slides from his face.

He ain't laughing no more now. "Can you do that, Tommy? Can you shut up for three seconds? I ain't making no promises," I say. "That's probably as good as a yes as I'll get out of you," Johnny says. He scratches the stubble on his cheeks and chin, then looks up into the sky. I could take him. I could. A couple shots to the gut and one to the chest should do the trick, except I know Johnny. He's waiting for me to make a move.

"I think I was dead when the shaman found me," Johnny says, still looking up into the sky. "But I suppose I had just enough life left in me for the shaman to know I wasn't gone yet. He cut me down and took me back to a cave only a mile or so away. He was on a quest, and he saw my being strung up as part of his quest. That man spent three weeks nursing me back to health. That was nice of him," I say. "It was," Johnny replies.

What wasn't nice was when he said his quest was over and he was going back to his tribe without me. Johnny finally looked away from the sky and fixed his gaze on me. "You see Tommy, I ain't fit for your world and I ain't fit for their world," he says. "I got two halves to me, but neither of those halves think I'm worth a shit." "I thought she was worth a shit," I say and smile. "Maybe even two shits." He doesn't laugh at my joke.

"Well, Johnny, that's a good story and all," I say. "But it still don't tell me why there's dead folk on my ass." "Because I sent them, Tommy," Johnny replies. "When that shaman was about to leave, I told him I needed a favor. I don't know how much you know about shamans, but they don't look too kindly on favors. Everything has a price. Don't I know it?" I say. "I asked him to help me find you," Johnny continues. "And he did.

Johnny laughs and angles his chin toward the pack of specters. "He told me to follow the dead," Johnny says. "That they'd lead me right to you." "Well, here I am," I say. "Now what?" "Now I watch you squirm," he says and plops right down on his ass. He takes a pack of tobacco out of his boot, rolls himself a cigarette, lights it with a match struck off the heel of his boot, takes a long inhale, lets it out, then smiles at me.

"Good luck, Tommy." Johnny always was a melodramatic son of a bitch. "Promise not to shoot me in the back?" I ask. "Cross my heart and hope you die," he says. "You ain't funny," I say. "Do you promise or don't you?" "You got nothing to worry about from me, Tommy," he says, and waves his cigarette toward the Rankins. "I think you got your hands full already." He ain't kidding, but I can't worry about Johnny right now. I got some Rankins and Spectres to put down.

I survey my situation carefully. Just in the short amount of time it took me to have that pointless conversation with Johnny. The Rankins managed to get to the base of the Butte. I see them tying up their horses and preparing to come for me. Well, they can prepare all they want. I count eight. Not a bad number. I shift my focus to the Spectres. They ain't quite to the base of the Butte, and it ain't like they're gunning for me.

Maybe in that figurative sense I suppose they is. But the Rankins have iron. The Spectres don't. So the Rankins is first up. I find me a place close to the big rock that their shooter pinged earlier. Makes for good cover, while still giving me a nice view of the Rankins. My colt is loaded, and I have the extra rounds in my pockets. Someone shouts from below and a shot rings out. It misses wide by a good couple yards. That helps me immensely.

Taking wind, the distance, and the downward angle into consideration, I aim my Colt at a big son of a bitch that's busy giving orders to the others. He's waving his arms around and pointing up at me. It's like he's asking to get shot. I squeeze once, twice, three times. The big son of a bitch drops hard. The rest of the Rankins shout and scurry. They's panicked now.

I see the flashes and smoke right before I hear the shots. Two rounds chip stone just above my head. I duck down, reload, and wait them out. As soon as the shooting stops, I take my turn. I send all six rounds down there. And I must have Grace on my side because six Rankins is in the dirt bleeding when I'm done. The five left open fire and I dive back to the rock. Shards is raining down on me as I cover my head and wait them out again.

"Not bad," Johnny says from his safe spot behind me. "I forgot how good you are with that piece. I've had practice," I say while I reload. "That you have," Johnny says. "That you have." The second the Rankin's stop firing, I'm up and giving it to them. Except they was waiting for me. I barely hit the ground in time before lead is flying over me. The last five ain't gonna make it easy on me, so I ain't gonna make it easy on them.

I belly crawl over the edge and slide down a few feet to a clump of sage. I get scratched up to hell as I wriggle myself inside that clump. I wince as my hurt hand gets a twig shoved right in that cut. Damn Rankins, making me act like a snake in the brush. I can hear them shouting to each other as they make plans. Sounds like they're coming to get me. Not the best idea in my opinion. I guess I killed the brains of the outfit already.

But if they want to make things easier on me, then who am I to stop them? Everything gets real quiet. The minutes tick by, then I hear a boot scrape gravel. They're close. Another few minutes tick by before I see the first one coming up a tricky route. I let him get closer and closer. Then once I see another, I open fire. The first one loses most of his head. The second one takes a round to the shoulder, which spins him around.

The next round hits him right in the spine. He falls, but from all the screaming and crying, I can tell he ain't dead yet. I reload as the other three try to take cover, but they ain't fast enough. Not a one is looking at the clump of sage I'm hidden in. So when I stand and fire, he's all looking this way and that, instead of at me. I get two of them, but the last one scrambles behind cover.

It's not a very big rock he ducks behind, so I could just wait him out. He's liable to make a mistake sooner or later. Except, I hear footfalls to my left. I spin about and halfway down the side of the butte are the specters. It ain't all of them, but it's enough to make me nervous. I gotta get this over with. "Throw out your gun, and I promise not to hurt ya!" I yell to the last Rankin. "Bullshit!" He yells back.

It don't really matter what he says, I'm lying through my teeth. All I needed was for him to think I was still in my same spot. But I ain't. Not no more. I'm almost to that small rock when the Rankin decides to make his play. He gets around between the eyes for his stupidity. I scramble quickly to the bodies and relieve them of as much ammunition as I can stuff in my pockets. Then I scramble my ass back up to the top of the butte.

Johnny is waiting for me. A fresh rolled cigarette between his fingers. I find my canteen and take a couple of swigs, making sure to leave a little in there. I still gotta make it to that mesa. "It sure is fun watching you work, Tommy," Johnny says. "Lucky for you, you're good at what you do." "It ain't luck, it's skill," I say and reload. I dump my pockets out onto my bedroll and count the rounds. Sixteen. Not as much as I'd hoped.

The Rankins probably have an armory down on those horses, but I ain't got time to go down there. Not with the specters about to be on me. What do I gotta do to make this right with you, Johnny? I ask. We're way past that, Tommy, Johnny replies. All you can do now is run. That's it? There ain't no resolution to this? I ask. Come on, Johnny. There's gotta be something you want. To watch you suffer like I suffered, he said. And you're doing a mighty fine job of it.

Then call off the hex or the curse or whatever that goddamn shaman did!" I shout. "I can't, Tommy," he says. "That's the price. It ain't never gonna end." Gravel crunches and I spin on my heels and fire. I put two rounds in the forehead of Halo's saloon keeper. He falls backward and tumbles down the side of the butte. Grieves as next as I put two in his forehead. He falls backward too and is lost from sight.

Then the rest is up over the edge and on the top of the butte with me. I fire and fire. I reload and move positions. I fire and fire. I reload and move positions. But they won't die. I guess because they's already dead. Makes sense in a hellish way. "You're about out of ammo," Johnny says. The specters don't even glance at him.

Plenty more down there, I say and point at where the dead Rankins lay. I'm sure there is, he says. How about you go down and get you some? I do not like the tone in Johnny's voice. I sidestep away from the specters and go to my cover rock. I lean around and look down the other side of the butte, and I see Rankins getting to their feet. God damn it, Johnny! I shout and spin around, taking aim. How the hell are they still alive?

They ain't, you idiot, Johnny says. I drop a couple more specters before taking a second look at the Rankins. Well, shit, he's right. They're getting up and climbing my way, but they sure as shit ain't alive. More specters. I take a couple of deep breaths, then get back to work.

No more headshots. No, sir. I aim for the legs and knees. I may not be able to kill them, but I can slow them all down. Well, most of them. I run out of ammunition in a matter of minutes, but I still got specters coming for me. Before they reach me, I get my bedroll, my Winchester, and hurry past Johnny. "Where you going, Tommy?" He calls after me as I shove through the brush to the far side of the butte.

It's a long way down and a hell of a lot more treacherous than the side I climbed up, but I ain't got much choice. Johnny is laughing as he follows me. Damn it, I should have saved a round for him. Keep running, Tommy! Johnny calls after me as I slip and slide my way down to the bottom of the butte. I'm bleeding and even more bruised than before by the time I get down. Then I turn and look up. Johnny is standing way up there with specters pushing past him so they can keep on tailing me.

The damn things just fall their way down the side. "Fuck you, Johnny!" I yell up at him. "Be seeing you, Tommy." He shouts down at me. "Have fun running for the rest of your damn life!" Son of a bitch. I finish off what's left of my water and head toward the mesa. I ain't quite sure what I'll do when I reach it, but I'll worry about that when I get there. So I set off with the sun blazing above me. I'm out of water, and I feel all beeped to hell.

Quite a situation I'm in. Makes me wonder if maybe not all them killings I'd done were properly justified. I'll think on it while I run from the damn specters. I'll have plenty of time for thinking. That's for sure. As long as I'm still alive, that is. Hey guys, thanks for listening. I want to give you all a quick heads up regarding some upcoming political ads you may start hearing leading up to this year's presidential election.

These ads do not represent my own political viewpoint. So if you hear a political ad play on the podcast and it's not in my own voice, then it has absolutely nothing to do with me personally as a podcaster. Thank you again for being a dedicated listener of mine, and I can't wait to have another amazing year with you guys. I'll see you in the next episode.