Hardened

 Prologue:

As the sun was beating down a physically wounded man with a rough grizzled beard, harsh tanned complexion on his face. He had stone cold but bright brown eyes; he wore a beaten to hell blue and whited striped shirt. He also had khakis, black hair, worn black boots, and a red cloth tied to his upper right arm because of his bullet wound. The man stood in the vast and open gorgeous dessert, mountains, and natural beauty of Utah. The man looked down to see his dead steed riddled with bullets, blood all over and surrounded by flies. No food or water was with him; he’d only had a colt forty five revolver and six bullets in it.

            He put his hand to his forehead to block the sun; he scanned the horizon to find some shade, water, or food. In his sights was ranch that appeared to be abandoned for quite some time. The ranch included a shack, fencing, and a two story house. From where he was standing and to the ranch, it was four miles distance. The man started to pick up his worn and tiresome feet to head his way there. As he paced his way to what looked like some glistening hope, the dust and blistering wind showered him and abstracted his view. He could see and feel the exhausting heat waves; his mouth was hung open gasping for some water or alcohol.

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After his overbearing and painful steps, he reached his destination and can see the ranch much more clearly and closer in range. Along the fencing, there were some black cattle; about twenty of them. He scanned more of the area to find resources of his value. As he searched, to his right was a well. He dashed for it and fetched for some water. As soon as he pulled it out, he gulped the water down that he fetched. The water was just as hot as the mountains, deserts, and grounds of this overheated hellhole. No matter, it filled him up with not hope, but with new life. Behind him was the shack, in its entire ancient, broken down, rotting glory.

He entered the battered inside of the building. His eyes gazed at the natural lighting brightening up the dark, tainted, and dusty place. Unfortunately for him, it did not lighten up his tasteless and sour mood. His mood was about as tasteless as a bottle of warm whiskey; and about as sour as the lips of a half cut German whore. The shack reeked of a putrid smell of chicken and horse odors; but he didn’t give a fuck. He was searching the inside perimeter, looking for supplies of any kind. Venturing towards the back of the shack to see if he can find any other weapons, medicine, or anything else.

Deeper and deeper through the rust, blistering wood and horrific air, the broad and tall shady man came across what looked appeared to be a toolshed. On top of the shed’s counter was a bunch of scattered metal, tools, rusted knives. In the back left hand corner of the shed was some thick, rough looking rope; and an average sledgehammer. He quickly steered himself toward the two objects. First, his hands gathered the rope quickly. He started making quick, but strong knots to the rope and wrapped it around his body.

Then, he reached for the hammer. He brought it to his back and, used the rope to strap it onto his back. It weighed near to a ton, due to his level of exhaustion and weariness.

Exiting out of the shack, and back into the scorching, dusty void, he started to pace himself where the house is. The exterior showed its age, wear, and tear. It’s blue and white was being torn by the razor sharp claws of the dust. The front entrance was wide open and all of the windows were broken. His eyes started to pierce downward as he was coughing his lungs out. In the grainy, golden dirt, there were shoeprints in the ground belonging to several sized leather boots. The prints led to the destination. He could tell someone has been here. He just hoped that they already left.

His critical knowledge led him to use one of the alternate entrances; to avoid being spotted just in case. He vaulted over the right corner window. His goal was keep searching for supplies he needed. Staying on ground floor, he continued his search. In the living room there were six chairs, all worn out or broken, missing a leg. The walls were of old rainy wood. The air was of the scent of worn leather and desert ground. He exited out of the living room past the broken golden grandfather clock. He stepped through what appeared to be the kitchen.