"More meat for the Sand Vulture," Leeda suggested sarcastically.
The scar on Rick's cheek flared red-purple. He leveled his gun slowly, with steady aim. After the trigger was pulled, Fatso stopped moving. "More meat for the Sand Vulture," he answered Leeda. "Now let's move."
The red dust whispered at Leeda all day—Death—Death—Death. Even with a pebble in her mouth to suck on, she felt her lips split and wrinkle. Her blood, sweet in her mouth, was welcome moisture. She set her shoulders forward and plodded through the endless sand and pebbly underfooting.
Toward evening Jocco stumbled and fell several times. At last he lay limply; looking to Leeda and Rick pleadingly. His lips moved slackly until he at last managed to croak, "Gotta rest. Can't go on. Please don't leave me."
Rick mouthed his reply thickly. "I'm pretty beat myself. Let's rest."
Leeda flopped to the sand without an answer. Her mouth was full of tongue. The pebble she had been sucking feeling like a file against her lips. Every muscle ached; every cell screamed for moisture.
After a long, wordless rest, Rick hauled himself to his feet and faced Leeda. "Can't trust you now. You'll sneak off and leave us alone."
Leeda looked at him scornfully. "Don't worry about that. I meant what I said. I want to see you die."
"Still got to watch you," Rick replied. He turned to Jocco. "You get some sleep first. I'll watch her. Later I'll wake you to take over."