El Dorado

If you had been one of the men hunting Fletcher Dunnigan on June 8, 1857, you would've found him in perhaps the most unlikely place possible. South of the bustling gold mining town of Calico, California, was a godforsaken stretch of desert that men would detour hundreds of miles to avoid. Nothing lived there but tumbleweed. There had been gold here once, back in the beginning of the rush that had lasted until '55 and more or less turned Fletcher's life upside down. Now there was nothing but a few crumbling buildings in a nameless town that had used to rival Calico. The church in the center, the very picture of decadence, had partially caved in, leaving the dried out husk of a once beautiful building. Outside the desolate church, Fletcher Dunnigan toiled in the blistering desert sun, waist deep in a pit that, if you looked closely, resembled a large grave. He was shirtless, obviously because of the desert heat, and wearing riding pants and the classic cowboy boots that were so popular in those days.

A few feet away, his horse was giving its dying breaths. Its chest rose and fell erratically, as if a large enough breath could cease its exhaustion. Its eyes were all whites as it shuddered and spasmed on the hard, cracked ground. Fletcher looked over at it, but no pity showed in his steely blue eyes. It had been a good horse, but it hadn't survived the hard ride out here. And really, if he was honest with himself, he hadn't expected it to. They'd ridden all last night out of Calico, a ride that he didn't think even the finest horse off a ranch out here would have survived. But he owed it a decent burial, that was for sure. Most men out here would've put the horse down by now, but he couldn't spare the ammo. Six shots in his Winchester revolver and the other four in his pocket wouldn't cut it if the men chasing him caught up. He'd already looted the deserted hulks of houses, and found nothing except an ancient bottle of liquor in what must have been the saloon. He'd expected something to be here, something he could scavenge until it all blew over. But unfortunately all he had was what he'd come with, which wasn't much. So he twisted the bottle open and sat down, watching the sunset and trying not to listen to his horse as it raged against the dying of the light. He'd never really liked sunsets, that was the truth. Fletcher knew most people thought them beautiful, but to him they seemed sickly, like the sky had some terrible infection.

He'd known a man not too long ago that had loved sunsets with a burning passion, a passion only equaled by his love for the wife and daughters that he had left at home. Fletcher had often woken up in Calico to see him standing outside, tears streaming down his face as that glowing orb ascended to the heavens. He'd been a kind and trusting man, a sensitive man, not the sort you usually found hoping to strike it rich out west. For better or for worse, Fletcher had gotten to know the man well, well enough to learn of the condition that ailed his youngest daughter, which was the reason he had moved west and opened a bank in the rough town of Calico. He sent all the money he earned east to raise money for the medical bills her operation would surely incur. But most of all, Fletcher remembered the last time he'd seen him alive. He'd been standing at the top of his bank stairs with a piece of firewood, looking at Fletcher with a combination of confusion and anger. Then pure terror had etched the man's face as Fletcher drew his revolver and emptied the chamber into his face. The bullet had hit him in the mouth, shattering his lower teeth and collapsing the left side of his face. He staggered backward, and Fletcher fired again, this time striking him in the chest, sending him plummeting down the stairs behind him. He'd never forget the sound of his friend's neck breaking as he hit the second to last step. With an incredibly loud snap and 5000 dollars appropriated from the bank, Fletcher became the most wanted man in the county.

Fletcher sipped his liquor again and winced as the fiery liquid burned down his throat. The sun was all but gone now, just a hint of red in the sky to suggest that that fading star had ever existed. He remembered the memory again and shuddered. It came unbidden to his mind most days, much as he'd like to forget it. It had been two weeks, and still it haunted his thoughts. He hadn't meant to kill him, hadn't even thought the man was nearby when Fletcher had broken in. But he'd panicked and killed him when he'd been discovered. Now he was stuck in this godforsaken wasteland with nothing but scorching desert on all sides. He'd never been a religious man, but he wondered if this might not be an act of God? Perhaps it was in recompense for what he'd done to that man. For what he'd been doing his whole life. Some time after the sun had set, his horse finally gave its last breaths. It shuddered, clinging desperately to the threads of life as they frayed in its grasp, and then lay still, just another corpse facing the oblivion of scorching sun and scouring winds. Once he buried his horse, Fletcher went into the church, lay down his thin bedroll and soon drifted off into an uneasy sleep.