Three days and three nights the Lawgiver’s men chased Verity across the Dying Land, their horses kicking up storms in the dust.
They dressed in black from hat to boots. Their eyes were dark, shallow sockets. They did not pursue by sight. Sight could not be trusted. They followed the scent Verity left in the aether, the footsteps she left on the skin of the world-beneath.
They never hungered. They never tired. And they always got their man.
Verity wasn’t a man and had no intention of letting anyone get her.
The Lawgiver’s men tore into the valley: five riders on five horses. Their revolvers gleamed in their gloved hands.
Verity was waiting.
Orange curls danced around her freckled brown face. Each hand held a pistol engraved with the name she’d taken, the name of truth. She felt the desert through the holes in her old boots.
She smiled and the riders stopped.
“You are outnumbered,” said one.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You are outgunned.”
“Why do you smile?”
“Because,” she said, “I know something you don’t.”
She vanished, stepping from world to world like a skipping stone, and all that was left behind her was swirling dust.
Word Count: 198
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Susan for running the challenge and Joy Pixley for providing the photo prompt!