I turn my back on the dying man and his spluttering breaths. I can feel his eyes following me as he drowns in his own blood.
His wheezing voice calls out:
“At least they’ll bury me—” a series of wet, sickening coughs interrupt. “But you’ll die out there,” he gasps, “veal for vultures, and the sun will bleach your bones.”
I walk through the batwing doors and into the bright noonday. My eyes are stabbed by the brilliant whiteness, and I have to squint as I wander down the boardwalk. Unhitching my steed, I leap onto his back; then, racing away into the desert, I flee.
A shadow passes before me, and above an eagle circles his way into heaven.
“Yah!” I cry, urging my horse to run faster and bring me deeper into the wasteland.
Though I try to run, the question still chases me through the plains and mountains, past rivers and lakes: Was justice worth losing civilization for?
I do not know.
Tale Told 