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The Time to Kill

The sun was beating down upon my face, and the cracks in my lips stung as the sweat oozed down and found its way into the raw openings there.  It wasn't the desert here, not where I rode, but it might as well have been.  Had I been able to measure the temperature, there was no doubt in my mind it had been over a hundred every day for nearly a week now, with no rain, few clouds, and only the merest respite from the sun and the warm winds blowing ceaselessly from the south.

Where I was exactly I couldn't say, only that I had the plains of western Kansas behind me, the coolness of the high peaks of the Rockies before me, and the will to survive within me.

And there was that matter of those Indians I'd left behind, and me without a canteen now...