RACON GUNNER MAN OF AGES IN NOT CRISTO'S SANGRE

The sun sat about three fingers above the horizon as the Rider came out of the arroyo and glanced East to West at the dry riverbed of the Santa Fe. The Sangre de Cristos were illuminated as their name suggested, only the bald part escaped as it turned violet and blended with the dark sky beyond.
The Rider tugged at the rope of his packhorse and it stumbled from behind the pinon tree, slowly trotting next to him. He tugged on the ropes and the bundle moved. He could hear the muffled cries of a young woman as he checked to see she was completely secured. Another quick look East at a graded slope leading out of the riverbed decided the direction of tonight’s camp.
A few yards from the Santa Fe next to a sizable Yukka and near an outcrop of slightly flat rocks. The Rider built a small fire to help fight off the high desert night air. He quickly glanced at the now mostly subdued Sangre de Cristos near the bald mountain for this night’s moon. He studied where the mountains met the sky for any glint of light when a heavy thud came from near his horses.
The rider leaped to his feet, kicking over his boiling coffee, dousing the fire. A large wet billowing cloud of smoke was caught up in the wind and pushed almost as one piece into the sky. The Rider continuing his action landed in the dirt. Then leaped again, almost comically, into the air, tackling the young woman as she rose free from her bonds.
The two crashed to the ground and rolled until the woman’s back was stabbed by a group of four Yukkas. The Rider grabbed her upper arms hard and then slammed her back deep into the spikes of a Yukka until about a dozen of its spikes drew blood. She shrieked in pain but was unable to free herself without causing incredible pain. She stopped moving, almost frozen. Her breathing tempered to prevent the barbs from going deeper or ripping her flesh more.
The Rider slowly let go and got to his knees. He looked back at his packhorse and whistled it over, which it begrudgingly did after the fourth call. With his right hand on the woman’s shoulder, preventing her from rising and his left hand deep in a saddlebag, he fetched out a set of iron chain cuffs. Fumbling them open with one hand, he cuffed the woman’s wrists together.
Feeling a bit more secure the Rider stood up and grabbed another set of cuffs for her ankles. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” The rider said to her as he locked the last one.
Only now, feeling confident that both cuffs were locked tightly, he quickly jerked her body free of the Yukkas. Her scream filled the night air. A lone jackrabbit took flight and ensured dinner, dried beef and black coffee again.
The Rider dragged the young woman back to the smoldering wet coals of his camp. She strained her neck and studied the horizon as the setting sun burned into her eyes. The Rider dropped her between the large Yukka and the coals as she desperately looked between the large blades of the Yukka, watching the sun touch the horizon. Then her body relaxed, and she laid on the ground and closed her eyes.
The Rider examined the ropes and blankets that had secured the woman, and they looked as if they were gnawed through in places and torn in others. He found a long leather strap and a bit of torn cloth and went back to the woman. He quickly jammed the cloth in her mouth and secured it by tying the leather strap about her head. She struggled, but every movement opened her wounds and brought her closer to the Yukka behind her.
He sat down across from her and turned his attention to the fire. He managed to find a hot coal and kicked dry sand over the wet spot. As the magic hour began, he was boiling the remaining coffee for his supper once again.