DRIFTING, too lax to be amongst the living, but too vital to be amongst the dead; BUTCH CAVENDISH has escaped yet again. Bloody, beaten, and bruised, but again ( woe be they who hunted him now! ). Blood has made their way from wounds freshly acquired, but, perhaps, they are not fatal. Though, it is not as if he can see a doctor. One beat, another, the image of health, before consciousness is ripped from him ( oh! ). Man does not feel it when he falls, loud enough to hear. Body collides with dirt-packed ground hard enough to spook Smoke, legs unentangled from the saddle. What a picture the outlaw is now, half-unconscious on the ground. Now that he is where he wanted to be, he could afford to be in pain.













