To their right a low line of chalky mountains lifted from the empty salt flats they now crossed. The horses’ hooves crunched the dry ground. Nothing moved on the desert; nothing made a sound but the drifting wind that pushed light sand before it and whispered eerily past the bandits and their hostages. Ki shifted in his saddle. His arms ached. His hands were still strapped to the saddlehorn of the bay horse he rode and it was impossible to get comfortable. Sweat trickled down his spine and it dripped into his eyes, stinging them. The bandits were even more uncomfortable. Ki smiled as he watched them. They bent over their horses’ necks, grumbling and cursing. The tequila still rode with them and it was making things miserable for Mono and his men. Ki turned a little to watch Jessica. She held herself erect in the saddle, the wind drifting her hair. She might have been out for a Sunday ride but for the grim set of her mouth. “Damn this desert, damn this heat,” one of the Mexicans said.
