"Stop it, you two," Rick commanded. "It's bad enough this way. The
living must live. He is dead and he doesn't know it. Why let him
suffer?"
"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."