The shadows of the saguaro stretched out across the sand. Deschamps knew that if he could just keep his horse moving, he’d outrun the law. There weren’t no way they’d be following him through here at night, no matter how much he’d stolen.
The sun dropped so suddenly it surprised him. Going was slow. Deschamps felt the needles growing out towards him. He imagined them piercing his flesh and that of his horse, and coming out the other side. Trapping him, slowly bleeding out, and then come morning, they’d retract.
The sheriff would find him, run through like a sieve.