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| The Hunt by � goeswith3faces Since days, they went through thorny bushes, creeks and wastelands. Now they found the first sign that they followed the right track. The campfire was cold now and his fingers touched the ashes. Maybe 6 hours lead. His eyes searched around the place for a hint to get further information. Three people, three ponies, three targets. He was full concentrated by doing his job. Every tiny piece he will found will get his full attention. He loved his job in moments like that, when he added every tiny piece to the mosaic in order to get a full view over the situation. A branch from a bush was broken maybe 9 feet from the campfire in foot�s height. On the rocky ground, he would not see any tracks or footprints. He went to the bush. Branches that had changed its normal position left a tiny track. The track guided him to a little rock. Somebody was doing something here, but what? He looked around. Not two feet far away, somebody had moved a stone. The stone was maybe as big as a little supply box. The stone had had its accurate place there before, now there was a little bit air to the stone under it and some little stones had been fallen down when somebody tried to place the stone back on its ordinary place. He put the stone away, and in a small whole, he found a shred of cotton, full of blood. A cruel grin brightened his face and his eyes glow. One of them is wounded! He touched the dry blood thoughtfully. That is good. They cannot ride very fast with a wounded warrior and they have to make more breaks. More breaks means that their lead will become less and less. His grin became a cruel smile, when he took his rifle and went back to his horse. His long black hair under his dusty head surrounded his thin face like a frame. He was half blooded. Half Chiracahua and half white. Chiracahua enough to look like a native and white enough to feel to be better than any Chiracahua. He did not know which part of him he hated most, he only knew that he hated and his hate was the source of his life. Maybe the hate and his restlessness had been one of the reasons for him to join the army. Whatever, he was born to fight and when there was nothing better to do in St. Carlos than to fight his own people, he fights his own people. On the other hand, he was not sure if these are really his people. He was only sure that he fights his war. Against whom he fights, had never been his premiere question. Two days later, his dead body lay between two rocks maybe 60 miles from the St. Carlos reservation away. Five bullets entered his body. Three in his chest, one in his left leg und one near his throat. His people left him with a red headband around his head. His long black hair surrounded his face like a frame and in his face stood a peacefully smile � ~With Respect To All Living Things~ ~Goes-with-three-faces~ |
