Blood... And a lot of it. They must have thought he was dead, or that he was going to die out here, or they just didn't care what happened to him after he hit the ground; either way, what he knew was that he felt like he should've been dead.

The creature that woke him kept prodding at him, the breath from its strong lungs rustling his hat, "Mmm... stop that" he said weakly, trying not to move. The thing kept prodding, and he kept not moving, it pressed its head up against him in a way that made him roll over on the dirt.

"Guh, dumb horse." The horse continued to make itself an obstacle until he finally relented, slowly sitting up and looking it in the eyes "What's your name, huh?" The horse, as a matter of fact, didn't speak English. "Fine, I'll just call ya dumb horse, that's what you are after all"

He made his first attempt in an untold amount of time at standing, he failed. A cough followed, no more blood though, the shots must not have hit anything important, good. He made a second attempt to stand, with more help from the dumb horse than he would have liked to admit.

Now that he was standing, he got a better look at what had woke him, it was a large, strong breed, clearly domesticated, but without a saddle. "You must have run off from a ranch somewhere, damn shame for the rancher... And me" He put his hand on his new companion, patting it on the head, then started to slowly walk in no particular direction. "C'mon dumb horse, let's go find where my money went."

The sun wasn’t doing him any favours. It hung low but hot, and every step beneath it sent a dull ache through his ribs. The horse followed close, too close, bumping its head into his shoulder every few steps like it was checking he was still alive.

“I ain’t dyin’,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “Not ’til I get my money back. After that, maybe.”

The horse snorted, unconvinced.

He paused at a patch of disturbed dirt: bootprints, several sets, all fresh. He crouched, winced, and pressed a hand to his side. The prints led west, toward the jagged silhouette of the canyon ridge.

“Figures,” he said. “Only idiots or outlaws go that way. And I ain’t an outlaw.”

The horse gave him a look that suggested otherwise.

“Don’t start with me.”

He stood again, slower this time, and scanned the horizon. No smoke, no dust trails, no riders doubling back to finish the job. Either they thought he was dead, or they were too stupid to check. He wasn’t sure which insulted him more.

The horse nudged him again, harder.

“What now?”

A vulture circled overhead, lazy and patient. Another joined it. Then a third.

“Great,” he said. “Even the birds think I’m dead meat.”

The horse lowered its head, sniffing the prints, ears flicking like it expected the men to still be standing there. He couldn’t blame it. The tracks felt recent enough to still be warm.

“Don’t fret,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ out here but us and the wind.”

He straightened, slow and stiff, and followed the line of prints westward, where the land grew quieter: even the insects seemed to hold their breath. The sky stretched wide and pale, washed-out blue like an old bruise.

As they walked, the prints became more defined, more urgent. The men had been in a hurry, their boots digging deep into the soft earth. He wondered what could have driven them to shoot him and leave him for dead. Had they been after his money? Or was there something more sinister at play?

The horse suddenly stopped, its ears pricked forward. He followed its gaze and saw a glint of metal caught in the sunlight. It was a revolver, half-buried in the sand. He knelt down and picked it up, the weight of it heavy in his hand. There was dried blood on the handle, his blood.

"Well, well, well," he muttered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Looks like we just found our first clue, dumb horse."

The horse huffed in agreement, as if it understood the gravity of the situation. He holstered the revolver and continued following the tracks, his mind racing with possibilities. Who had shot him? And why?

As they approached the canyon ridge, he saw a small camp in the distance. Smoke rose lazily from a fire, and he could hear the murmur of voices. He crouched down, motioning for the horse to stay put.

"I'll be right back, dumb horse," he said softly. "Don't go wandering off now."

He crept closer to the camp, his heart pounding in his chest. Peeking through the bushes, he saw the men who had shot him. They were counting his money, laughing and celebrating their ill-gotten gains.

His jaw tightened, his grip on the revolver growing tighter. This was it, the moment of truth. With a determined look in his eye, he stood up, ready to confront the men and unravel the mystery of who shot him and why.

"Let's do this, dumb horse,” he whispered, a steely resolve in his voice. The horse whinnied in response, as if cheering him on.

With a deep breath, he stepped out of the bushes, his hand on the revolver. It was time to set things right and get his revenge.