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The bird must have been following him for at least two weeks. The feathered stranger kept itself just high enough so that Jack couldn’t make heads or tails of just what kind of bird it was. This annoyed Jack to no end and the bird seemed to acknowledge this and decided to have some fun out in the heat.
Jack Cavanaugh. Grew up in the war and that’s all he ever knew. Killing and torturing came to him as easily as breathing. He certainly wasn’t your typical cowboy. He had the boots, spurs, chaps, hat, scruff, but something about Jack ‘Stack’ Cavanaugh set him apart from the rest. Maybe it was the way he held himself. He had a sort of acceptable arrogance, an awareness that he was the man, and no one could (or would) fuck with him. Maybe it was the fact Jack wasn’t a fan of the typical cowboy arsenal. Pistols and revolvers? Fuck that, Jack carried quite a different variety. He carried, as all cowboys do, his trusty hunting knife, but also had two gold plated magnums he held in holsters around his hips, and strapped to his back was an old WWII Springfield sniper rifle. Hidden inside a satchel tied to his horse was (as a last resort) a silver German Luger and a sawed off shot gun. Inside the satchel there was also a compass, a canteen, flint, and an old war journal.
Jack decided the bird had to be some kind of eagle, but it flew overhead like a vulture stalking its prey, just waiting for Jack to die. He didn’t plan on dying any time soon. Throughout his life, Jack made much longer and tiresome trips.
The cowboy arrived at the top of a large sand dune. |He felt as if he could see a thousand miles in any direction, like he could simply reach up and he would touch the billowy white clouds above. A gentle breeze blew Jack’s greasy brown bangs from his eyes, a sort of reward from the God’s for reaching the top.
The bird continued to head west; Jack supposed it was grabbing a bite to eat while he rested. He built himself a small fire and withdrew three red scorpions from one of the satchels tied to his horse.
Ash was a beautiful jet black mustang. No matter how dire the situation may be, Ash always seemed as high spirited and beautiful as ever. It ate like a camel, was as loyal as a dog, ran like a cheetah… and was Jack’s best friend. Ash gobbled up the claws, but the tails remained. Jack threw pepper on what was now a scorpion torso and bit down, they tasted awful. The kind of awful that would automatically ignite the gag reflex, but Jack ate it like it was lobster. Jack finished up and put out the fire. He buried up what he didn’t take with him so the Berserkers couldn’t pick up his trail. If that happened, the bird might end up with his meal after all. The eagle arrived right on cue, and Jack continued his quest.