Word reached me of a strange ram wanderin’ the deserts of New Austin. Folks spoke of crimson horns and a temper mean enough to send hunters limpin’ home empty-handed. Most men saw a trophy. Harriet saw somethin’ worth protectin’. Truth be told, I cared little either way. Coin is coin, and the trail needed followin’.

The hunt took near a full day beneath a merciless sun. Tracks wound through dry washes and cactus fields where even the buzzards seemed too tired to circle. More than once I caught sight of the beast standin’ atop distant ridges, watchin’ me as much as I watched him. Smart animal. Wary. Every bit as legendary as the stories claimed.

By late afternoon I found him among the brush, broad as a mule and wearin’ those red horns like a crown earned through violence. He stood his ground when lesser creatures would’ve fled. For a moment I considered droppin’ him where he stood and strappin’ the hide across my saddle. Would’ve been the easier choice. Yet there was somethin’ in the way he stared back, old and stubborn, like the desert itself.

So I loaded a sedative instead of lead. One shot struck true and the old ram staggered before settlin’ into the dust. I knelt beside him, gathered the sample Harriet wanted, and made certain he still breathed steady. Left him there beneath the orange sky with every chance to wake and roam those canyons again. Not every legend needs endin’. Some are better left to haunt the wilderness a little longer.

— Mateo De La Muerte

Entry No. 11 - New Austin, 1899