Forgotten and Forsaken (Preview)

Chapter One

“You have no one to blame but yourself.”

The words hung in the air, and an inky black pressed from all directions. The man wasn’t even certain who’d said the words. All he knew was that the voice came from somewhere in front of him.

He was moving, and he was in a lot of pain. It took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t the one who was moving himself. He was on the back of a horse, draped on his stomach over the animal’s rump as though he were a bedroll. His arms were in front of him and his legs hung over the other side, and he figured he must be tied in place as he would fall off otherwise.

“Is he dead?” the same voice he’d heard before asked.

Someone jabbed him in the side, and a feral groan left his lips.

“Nope,” a voice that was much closer to him replied. “But won’t take much and he will be.”

“Good.”

There was something familiar about both voices, but the man wasn’t sure what was happening. His first thought was that he was having some sort of dream, but with the pain coursing through him, he realized it couldn’t be all in his head.

He felt sick to his stomach, but he wasn’t certain whether the pain in his stomach came from nerves or an injury.

He didn’t even know how injured he was.

“He talking?” the voice farther ahead asked.

“Nope,” the man directly ahead of him replied. “Not even making much noise unless I touch him, which I’m really not trying to.”

“Doesn’t much matter one way or the other,” the first speaker said. “He’s not going to be around much longer, anyway.”

The bound man had no concept of time. He didn’t know how much had elapsed during the brief conversation taking place or how far they’d traveled, and he had no idea where they were going.

He didn’t even know why he was being subjected to such treatment. He tried to say something, but it felt like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and no sound would pass his lips. The best he could manage was a small groan.

“What’d he say?” the first speaker asked, and the second quickly informed him that the injured man hadn’t said a thing.

“Just groaned or something,” he said dismissively. “But like you said, I don’t think it’ll be a problem much longer.”

“How much farther?” the voice came again. It sounded irritated, and the injured man wondered why. It seemed the pair was lost, but then, if they were lost that meant they were going somewhere specific. He should know where they were going, but he had no idea.

He should also know where they were coming from. And that, too, was completely blank in his mind.

“To hell with it, this is as good a place as any!” the first speaker said.

“Are you sure?”

“Boss said to get rid of him, and I’d say this is getting rid of him, wouldn’t you?”

“You want to shoot him before we go, just to make sure he’s dead?

“Might as well.”

The exchange was brief, and the injured man easily deduced they were talking about him. He wondered who their boss was, and what he’d done to bring such wrath upon himself. The pain he felt already made him suspect he’d been shot, but if that was the case, why would they shoot him again?

The injured man felt the other grab him, then he felt the rider fighting with ropes. That at least confirmed that he was tied to the back of the horse. Then he was roughly shoved off the back of the horse.

The ground came fast, and the injured man landed with a grunt.

“He might not have survived that,” the first speaker laughed. “Why not get off and kick him to see?”

“Just shoot him and let’s go. You think you can hit him from the saddle?”

“Shut up! I don’t need your taunts.”

“Sorry,” the speaker said with a chuckle. “Just pointing out you’re not that good, that’s all.”

The first speaker swore at the second, and the injured man heard a gun cocking. He closed his eyes, willing the pain to end. He wasn’t afraid, not really. He was confused, but he figured he was as good as dead anyway.

“Hold on!” the second speaker said suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you see that?”

There was nothing but silence for a moment, then the first speaker continued. “Might not want to shoot. It’ll draw them over this way, and we don’t know if they’re the law.”

“Boss wants him dead.”

“Look at him! Do you think he’s going to make it out of this? Might be he’s dead already.”

The injured man continued to lie on the ground, and his survival instincts told him not to make a sound. If his assailants were already questioning whether to shoot him because of other people being in the area, he might as well make them think he was already dead to avoid being shot again.

He didn’t have long to think, as unconsciousness was taking over.

“I say we get out of here then,” the second speaker finally said. “One of us can come back in the morning and finish the job.”

The man screamed in silence.

His eyes were closed, though he didn’t realize that until he actually opened them. Only an inky blackness filled his vision, and he once again opened his mouth, but no sound crossed his lips.

What is going on? Why can’t I focus? Where am I?

The thoughts flooded his brain, but he couldn’t make sense of anything. For a moment, he wondered if he was asleep. Or maybe even dead.

I can’t be dead. Dead people don’t think. Do they? If I’m asleep, why can I think clearly? Or am I even doing that? Nothing makes sense, and I can’t see a damn thing. How clear is that?

The man closed his eyes as tight as he could, feeling the grains of sand between his lids. They scraped against his eyeballs and tears welled up, though they did little to provide relief. He suspected he was lying in the desert, face down in the sand itself.

At least that explains why it’s so dark, though it doesn’t tell me much else.

He took a deep breath but promptly started coughing. What a mistake it had been, breathing in lungs full of sand. The coughing enlightened him in a new way, as well. He was in a lot of pain.

He felt the majority of the sting in his lower back. It seemed closer to one side rather than the other, and it was accompanied by another sharp throbbing in his head. At first, he didn’t know whether his head had been injured externally, but as soon as he turned his neck, he cried out.

Finally, a real sound exited his lips. He definitely had some sort of injury above his ear. It felt like it ran the full length of his ear and curved down the back, heading toward his neck, although he couldn’t be certain without looking.

Not that I’ll be able to see it without a mirror.

The man took a few moments to gather himself. He tried to focus, but panic caused his mind to race with confusion. His face felt sticky, and he smelled blood. He had no idea where he was—or where they were.

With a surge of adrenaline, he twisted himself. He didn’t know what was wrong with his arms or legs, but it seemed the best thing to do was simply roll over despite the pain. Once again, he cried out as he did so. The stinging in his back intensified, and the throbbing in his head immediately got worse. He figured it was because of his heart rate spiking and causing the blood to flow.

He squeezed his eyes once again, the tears finally doing their job and pushing the sand away. His vision was still irritated, but at least he was able to take in his surroundings. He was indeed out in the desert, and the sky above was clear. It was very dark, and the man guessed it must be close to dawn.

There was no sign of the moon, but with the few stars he could still see above him, he knew the sun must be on its way up rather than down. He tried to look at the horizon, hoping he would be able to orient himself once he did.

Maybe seeing some town or landmark or something-anything-will be enough to jostle my memory.

But there was nothing. The sky was a little brighter around the horizon, further confirming in his mind that it must be quite early in the morning. Off to the south, he could see hills. He couldn’t turn his head enough to see north, and the east and west were simply flat as far as the eye could see.

Birds called, singing to each other before the sun rose and the heat of the day set in.

So now would be a good time to get moving before I cook out here. With this much blood, it won’t take long before the vultures or coyotes come around, and I don’t want to deal with them.

With resolve building, the man tried to pull himself to his feet. Immediately, there was a problem.

Looking down, he saw that his hands were tied in front of him, and his feet were also bound with a worn rope.

What in blue blazes? Guess that rules out that an animal did this to me. But who would have left me beat and tied out here in the desert? Why not just kill me?

It was a morbid thought, and the man wasn’t quite sure why it even crossed his mind.

Why am I thinking like that at all? Why am I not more surprised by this? Hell, why can’t I remember anything at all?

Exhausted, the man laid back in the sand and did his best to think. He willed himself to remember something. His heart rate picked up, and he forced the panic back down. It was then the realization hit him… he didn’t even know who he was.

What’s my name? What did I do to deserve this?

He clenched his teeth and pushed through the pain as he fought the ropes off his wrists. They weren’t as tight as he’d expect if someone wanted to keep him there. Perhaps they had been tied a lot tighter earlier in the night and had come loose throughout whatever it was he’d endured.

With his hands finally free, he ran them down the front of his jacket, reaching into each of the pockets and making sure he didn’t have any sort of badge or paperwork on him that might indicate he was a lawman. Or perhaps a bounty hunter. He found a knife, a tin of cigarettes, and some bullets, but otherwise, his pockets were empty.

Of course, it would make sense that whoever did this to him had wanted to take his weapons, but they must have overlooked the knife. Or perhaps they didn’t think he’d be able to do much good with a knife since they’d taken his gun.

He didn’t have a gun, but the fact he had bullets told him he ought to have one. He didn’t have paperwork or a badge, but he figured that was rather inconclusive. If he had been robbed, there was no telling what had been taken from him.

But who would rob someone and leave them bound in the desert? That doesn’t make sense. If someone had beat me to steal, they wouldn’t have tied me up on top of it. Sure, it would make sense to tie me if they didn’t intend to kill me, but from the state I’m in, I was evidently supposed to die.

Frustrated, he threw the rope onto the ground. He tried to feel his wounds but had little luck. He couldn’t reach the one on his back as it hurt too much to twist around. He quickly gave up on that and touched the side of his head. He could feel the gash that ran across his scalp. He winced as he did, feeling the grains of sand dig further into the wound.

It didn’t feel like it was as deep as his skull, but it wasn’t good all the same. He sat up and immediately regretted it. The world spun, and nausea swept through him so intensely he didn’t have the chance to even lie back down before he vomited.

The retching caused his wounds to ache, and he didn’t feel any better after expelling the contents of his stomach. Panic rose up again, but he ignored it as he tried to decide what to do next. He couldn’t sit there in the dark, and with the thought of predators weighing on his mind, he had to get moving.

He started working on the ropes that bound his feet, but they were a lot tighter than the ones around his wrists. He’d just decided he was going to use his knife to cut himself free when he heard something.

Hoofbeats filled the air. Someone was riding nearby.

His instinct was to shout for help. Perhaps someone was on their way to a town and could give him a ride. But before any sound escaped his lips, he checked himself. The rider might be someone who could help him, but there was also a good chance that the person could be tied to whoever had hurt him initially.

The sun was rising, making it easier to see what was going on around him. The silhouette of the rider was stark against the orange backdrop of the sun, and conflicting thoughts ran though the man’s mind simultaneously. Nothing about the rider seemed threatening, but he couldn’t ignore that it was odd for the rider to be heading in his direction with such deliberation.

That indicated that the rider knew he was there.

There was something vaguely familiar about the situation, though he was still left with more questions than answers. Something inside him screamed at him to get away, however.

The rider yelled something the man couldn’t hear. He wanted to yell back, but his words caught in his throat. He needed water. He wanted to shout to the rider that he couldn’t hear what was said, but it quickly became evident that his initial fear was realized.

The rider had something in his hand, and though the man hadn’t been able to make it out at first, he heard the echo of a gunshot, and sand flew into the air right next to him.

The rider was coming in fast, shooting at him.

And it was clear he had every intent to kill him.

Chapter Two

Two more shots caused sand to fly up on either side of the man’s body. He could see that the rider struggled to get good aim with how his horse was running, but that would only be a problem until they drew closer. Once that happened, there would be no stopping him.

The rider had a gun, and with the man tied on the ground, all the rider had to do was get off the horse and walk over to get perfect aim. He had to go.

He tried scrambling to his feet, but with his legs bound together, all he could do was hop away. Of course, that didn’t last long. The gunshots rang out, one of the bullets ricocheting off a nearby rock and sending shards of it in various directions.

Though the man couldn’t remember a thing, he knew he had to get away from the rider as fast as he could, or he’d die.

“You should have stayed dead, amigo!” the rider shouted. He spoke English, but his accent said he was from Mexico. “It would have been better for you that way!”

What the hell is he talking about?

He hopped two more paces, his mind racing. He considered asking what the rider wanted, and why he was bent on killing him. The problem was that stopping could very well be the last thing he ever did.

Shoot, if I keep running like this, it could very well be the last thing I ever do. He’s going to get lucky with one of those shots, and that’ll be the end of me.

He reached into his pocket and yanked out his knife. Bending forward, he gritted his teeth against the searing pain that ran down his back and slashed at the ropes that bound his ankles together. He didn’t have time to see where they were tied, so he was unable to free himself completely, but he still managed to break the bond.

With his legs separated, he ran from the scene. A rope remained around his left foot, trailing some distance behind him. The man wanted to cut it free so he could run faster, but he’d wasted enough time already. The Mexican man was gaining on him, and he had to keep moving.

With the sun up, he was far better able to see the landscape. There were mountains both to the north and south, suggesting he was in some kind of valley. The mountains to the south were closer than the ones in the opposite direction.

There were also trees just ahead. They were sparse, desert-like trees that didn’t provide much cover, but with the head start he had, he was able to reach them before the rider reached him. Considering how much difficulty the other man was having aiming, this was his best bet to survive.

He weaved between the trunks, wishing they were wider to provide him with more cover. There was a hill nearby, and it seemed that led to more hills beyond. The injured man dove behind a large boulder and started crawling, hoping he’d lose the assailant among the growth.

“You can run from me, but you’re not going to make it far, amigo,” the Mexican man called out as he rode into the trees. He slowed his horse to a walk, unable to keep up the pace through the foliage. Still, it was clear he wasn’t going to simply give up until he had shot the wounded man.

Once again, the man wondered if he ought to call out to the Mexican and ask why he wanted him dead. Perhaps he had done something to that man or his family, and he was back for revenge.

At that moment, an image from the night before flooded into his mind. He remembered being bound on the back of that horse, draped like a bedroll across the animal’s rump. He remembered the two speakers and some of the conversation they were having, but he still didn’t know his own name, or why they had taken him out to the desert to kill him.

It had been clear by their conversation that they wanted him dead, but that was about all he knew. Neither had said why, or who they were working for.

Boss. They definitely said they had to get the job done in order to please this man they called “Boss.” I must have done something to him, or did something he didn’t like to someone else. I don’t know, but he’s the one who wants me dead.

Maybe I can bribe this Mexican to leave me alone, but with what? It’s not like I have anything of value, and if he’s one of the two last night, he wanted me dead then. Why would he let me go now?

The wounded man dismissed the thought. There was nothing he could do to negotiate with the rider, but he refused to give up. As he crawled in the dust, trying to stay low and out of sight, he searched his mind for any indication of who he might be. Perhaps if he were to remember who he was, he might have some answers—not that it would help him out of the situation at hand.

Then again, if he remembered who he was, perhaps that would bring with it some forgotten skills that could help him survive. Clearly, he was tough. He didn’t know the extent of the wound on his back, but he had felt just how bad the injury on the side of his head was, and he continued to run.

He’d managed to get the knife and keep moving, all while being wounded and shot at in the process.

“Running is pointless!” the Mexican taunted. “Trust me. I’m just trying to make it easier on you!”

If you’re trying to get me to respond, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m not falling for that. You just want me to tell you where I am so you can shoot me.

He didn’t know how he knew, or whether he was simply running off the survival instincts within him, but he wasn’t about to give away his location. The rider had come in guns blazing, so there was no reason to believe he would hold back once he got sight of where the wounded man lay.

Then, the wounded man heard something that caught his attention.

It was the sound of running water. It was coming from just up ahead. He looked up, blinking against how bright the sky was becoming. He wished for a cloud, but he wasn’t afforded that luxury.

The water was on the other side of the ridge, and from the rushing noise, it had to be a river. It was far too loud to be anything smaller.

“Do you really want to die out here in the desert?” the Mexican asked. “If you just quit running, this can all be over right quick and painless. I’m sure with what you’ve been through, you’d love for it all to be over, huh?”

Maybe if I take long enough, he’ll tell me what I’ve been through. Not that it matters. His goal is clear, so if I don’t want to wind up dead, I’d better move now and figure it out later.

The wounded man looked around. The ridge wasn’t far, but it would be a risk to make a run for it. There was a chance that the rider could catch up and that would be the end.

But if I stay here for much longer, it’ll be the death of me anyway. He’s right there, and he’s looking. I need to keep moving. I need to!

He dropped his gaze from the ridge and scanned the ground around him. He was looking for anything he might be able to use for a weapon. He couldn’t stand up against a gun, but he might be able to buy himself some time if he was lucky. Then it struck him. He had the knife.

He was in no shape to fight with the Mexican, but he could draw on his skills to at least slow him down. Perhaps even stop him entirely, if he was lucky.

If he aimed well enough, he might be able to sink the knife into the other man’s eye or neck. A well-aimed throw could also sink it into a lung or his heart. If he was fortunate enough to kill the Mexican, then he could take his gun and his horse and ride for help.

It was crazy, but he was in a life-and-death situation. He might have to do something crazy to survive.

He drew in a breath and held it, pausing for just a moment. He could hear the Mexican walking closer to the other side of the boulder, and he knew he would only have one shot.

At the same time, if he simply ran up the side of the hill, he was also risking being shot. It was a risk, he knew, but he had to make the most of it.

The wounded man picked up a rock. It wasn’t large enough to use as a weapon, but it would serve his purpose. He threw it away from him, striking one of the trees nearby. The thin trunk rattled with the impact, and the Mexican man reacted. The wounded man couldn’t see him, but he heard the Mexican cry out as he shuffled, evidently turning.

He fired two gunshots in the direction of the tree, revealing to the wounded man just how on edge he was. Still, the wounded man didn’t hesitate.

He flew to his feet and turned, throwing the knife over the boulder as hard as he possibly could. He didn’t have time to aim the way he’d have liked, and the knife left his hand quickly, sailing through the air. It didn’t hit the Mexican anywhere lethal, but it did sink into his upper right arm.

The Mexican screamed in rage, dropping his gun in the shock of the moment. The wounded man didn’t wait. As soon as he saw that the knife hadn’t killed the Mexican, he turned and scrambled up the hill. All he could do was run and hope that his opponent chose to give up the chase.

The knife sank into the man’s arm up to the hilt. It was only a few inches, but that would be incredibly painful for anyone to endure. The way the Mexican reacted was enough to scare his horse, and it started back toward the base of the hill. The Mexican shouted after the frightened animal, scaring it more as he yelled in Spanish.

The wounded man didn’t wait to see what happened. He rushed toward the top of the hill as fast as he could in his condition, hoping to put as much distance as possible between him and the other man. However, just as he reached the top of the hill, he realized he was trapped.

There was nothing but a sheer cliff on the other side. The river was roughly twenty feet below, and it looked wild and deep. He looked to the west, the direction in which it was flowing, and saw a town off in the distance. It was much too far for him to hope to reach in his condition, especially with the Mexican giving hot pursuit.

“You should have stayed dead,” the Mexican told him again when he reached the top of the hill.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want,” the wounded man said, but the Mexican only laughed. He laughed again when the wounded man added, “I don’t want anything from you or whoever you work for, I just want to be left alone. Please, just go away and I’ll get out of here and never come back.”

“You can’t really think I believe that,” he said. “You know as well as I do the boss is going to be angry if you live.”

“I don’t know who you’re even talking about!” the wounded man shouted. He was afraid, but that fear was being replaced with an anger he couldn’t quite control. He was frustrated that he couldn’t remember anything, and it seemed the Mexican was going to shoot him because of some other person the wounded man couldn’t remember.

If he could at least know the cause of everything, he might be able to convince the other man to let him live. But it was blatantly clear that the Mexican didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know what was going on. Perhaps he thought the wounded man was making it up.

The wounded man looked over his shoulder, quickly debating what to do. The Mexican, though wounded, still had the gun in his hand. And he was getting closer.

“Sorry,” the Mexican said. “You know it’s nothing personal. Orders are orders.”

The wounded man had no choice. He could stay and take his chances with a bullet, or he could jump and take his chances with the river. It wasn’t an easy choice by any means, but to the wounded man, it was simple.

Before the Mexican could react, he took a step back and halfway jumped, halfway fell off the cliff. The water came toward him fast, and in an instant he was hit with the cold shock of the spray as he plunged beneath the surface.

The Mexican fired at him but missed. The wounded man saw the trail of the bullets as they each cut through the water, but they vanished in an instant. He fought his way to the surface, but he was moving fast, carried away from the Mexican by the rough current.

The wounded man fought for air, fought for his life, but he feared it was a losing battle. Darkness was creeping in, and he feared he was about to lose consciousness.

And he may never wake up again.

Chapter Three

“But that’s the difference—we’re in Arizona, not Nevada,” the miner said, and Celeste Baker laughed her melodic, cheerful laugh.

“I didn’t say we’re in Nevada. All I said was that times are changing, and it might not be long before we start to see laws here match with what they’re doing there.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” her friend Smitty replied. “I’ve been here my whole life, Celeste, you know that. I like life simple.”

“You’ve also worked in the mine pretty close to your whole life,” she pointed out, gently nudging him with her shoulder. “I declare, it seems you start to make up your own rules with how much time you spend down in that hole.”

“That’s because you don’t really know what life is until you’re stuck in the darkness as long as I have been,” Smitty said. “I’m seventy years old this year, and I’ve likely spent more time underground than above it. Let me tell you something, you see real people down in the dark, when they think no one else is watching. It’s when you come out here in the sun that you have to watch out. That’s when you don’t know who it is you’re dealing with.”

“You know me,” Celeste told him, sticking out her lower lip. “And you know Pa, too. Pa’s spent a lot of time down in that mine, and he’s the same both places.”