Text by Steven C Davis, image by Nimue

Gulch pushed the black sombrero back from his forehead. The fog streamed down heavier than he’d seen before; maybe there was a sun out there, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been following the trail for so long …

There was something wrong with his nag as well, he was sure. Sure-footed over dry ground, over cliff edges and up mountain trails, but this new trail … he shook his head. He was used to the sun shining down, clear blue skies and the steady clop-clop of his nag’s hooves on stone, but lately …

Something was definitely off with the nag. It wasn’t going clop-clop anymore; it was more of a squelchy sound as its hooves hit the ground. And, last time he’d looked, it’d looked like there were tendrils growing from its hooves. Obviously it was just tangled underbrush, but even so …

He swayed in the saddle. It wasn’t raining but he was soaked. The fog parted here and there and he caught glimpses of a very un-desertlike vista. It was cool – no, decidedly cold actually, but the fog wasn’t making him feel soaked.

He frowned. The heat of the chaparral made being clean shaven preferable, but now a beard grew. A straggly beard, with little outriders waving in a breeze he didn’t feel. He took his hat off; frowned.

The black was seeping from it, revealing a turgid, muddy grey colour.

Gulch returned it to his head. Leaned forwards, slipping a hand into the saddlepack he’d slung in front of him. Drew out the bottle of whiskey. It was still half full, the delightful gold now a limp, depressed bronze colour, but still.

He shoved it back into the saddlepack.

So I’m not drunk, he thought. This might make more sense if I was.

He frowned.

Thoughts made their way slowly through the mind of Dry Gulch.

One thing he knew, the gulch was no longer dry.

His nag looked painfully thin – why, their legs were bone thin and white. He was sure the nag had been black once.

His hat had changed colour, like some varmint had sun-bleached it.

Not that there was any sun.

The trail he’d been following … he’d kept on following. Except now it was vaguely downhill and damp, not uphill and hot.

He drew the pistol from his holster. The metal felt sticky. A little bit warm. Wrong, just wrong, in some way. He shoved it back into the holster, noticing it was trickling, leaving tiny splashes of silver behind it.

He drew the duster coat around him. It looked more like a shroud.

‘I reckon not everything’s hopeless,’ he muttered. ‘There’s gotta be something to eat round here.’