Pablo’s Red Poncho

The night had grown eerily quiet, except for the murmur of voices from the others. The world is like that; when you anticipate that something is about to occur, then it seems all manner of strange things happen right in that very moment. This is how Pablo felt crouched behind that huge Cactus, its needles stabbing him in the back every time he flinched or twitched. He had slid his poncho from his back about 2 hours ago and huddled into it- shelter from the onslaught of night time dust that flew through like swallows in the sky and pecked at his eyes. The only thing he regretted was the colour – it was his smartest poncho in a bright rip roaring red colour that he was afraid would give away his hiding spot should the men come back this way.

However, he had made sure to pick the biggest cactus as defence and as he squinted out into the night under his wide sombrero he heard a gunshot. First one, then two and then a whole chorus. The others were beginning to stir, the gunshot unsettling their nerves. The men were coming. Pablo pulled his toes into the security of his poncho and shrunk into the prickles of the cactus, despite the pain.