Quinn got to one knee and spit out some blood. He felt his eyes swell and sharp pain in his ribs with every panting breath. He looked up at the men, who had formed a ring around him, holding weapons. Quinn kept low, knowing what was about to come next. He’d have more luck taking a run right for the tree line. If they wanted to shoot him in the back, at least he’d have a damn chance.

Something caught the attention of the men and they all turned. A tall figure strode up, hands in the pockets of his coat, not bothering to hide his face. His face flat and wide, long black hair in a slick ponytail.

“Take him down to that creek,” said the man, who looked like he’d just stepped off the Rez.

“We ain’t through with him yet.”

“You’re through,” the Indian said. “Walk him down there and leave us. This man killed my friend. Not yours.”

“Leave?” the man said. “Shitfire. What the hell you talking about? You ain’t gonna fuckin’ kill him. Are you? We’re just trying to teach this cocky bastard a lesson.”

The Indian looked hard at the man as two others grabbed Quinn by the arms and force-walked him toward the winding creek, a gun in his back, the squat guy still trying to debate the Indian, saying he sure as shit wasn’t gonna be any part of killing a cop. “Have y’all lost your fucking minds? That’s not what we’re about, Tonto. I ain’t a part of this. No siree. No fucking goddamn way.”

The men walking with him let go of Quinn’s arms for a moment, the trees shaking in the violent wind shooting down through the cotton fields. A big harvest moon shone through the clouds for a moment. The blue light on the trailer porch went out, as did the light in the window.

“Get back in your goddamn car,” the Indian said to the squat man. The others momentarily distracted.

Quinn dove into the brush and tangled weeds by the creek, sliding down into the rocky bed, running through the shallow water, keeping close to the bank and down in the shadows as shots fired behind him, earth and stones kicking up around him. He pushed himself against the sunken edge of the creek bed, catching a ragged breath with the cracked rib, his mouth tasting like pennies, staying silent as he watched four men up on the edge of the creek, pointing and making their way down.

He pushed himself deeper under a root ball exposed by the erosion, waiting for one of the men to get close enough. He steadied his breath, staying as quiet as possible, listening to a Watchman move through the bed, splashing up water as dead leaves shook from the tall cottonwoods and floated down toward the sandy bottom.