It was the sixth day of the heatwave. It was so hot you could see the air rippling and warping as the sun baked off the moisture from the ground and the air. No life could be seen anywhere, except for the buzzards whirling and twirling high up in the sky looking for their next meal.

A man appeared in the horizon, like a ghost in some story. In one hand he carried a rope, coiled up in his fist. In the other he carried a gun, a silver sixshooter that had never fired a bullet. The man trudged through the heat, seemingly unaware of the boiling temperature. His hat was pulled low over his brow, shielding his eyes from the unforgiving sun.

Every now and then, he would stop walking and stoop to the earth. The tracks he was following would fade in and out, but always they were there. His quarry was somewhere in the distance ahead of him, but he didn’t figure they would be far ahead for long. This heat had a way of slowly killing a man, and not many could survive it for long.

He walked again, measuring his pace carefully. He was made for this weather as few others were. He’d been pursuing his quarry for days now, even before the heatwave had started. And he was counting on the heatwave to yield up his man soon. And then, just maybe his sixshooter would finally see some action.

A building appeared in the distance, a lone structure standing off by itself. The man knew his prey was likely holed up there to escape the heat — and possibly to find some water. A place like that wouldn’t stand alone without a well or a spring nearby.

He aimed for the structure, his trigger finger itchy. It wouldn’t be long now before justice was served and his manhunt would be over.

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