Salma Hayek and John Wayne rode horseback most of the day to cross a wide, grassy valley. They made camp when they struck a shallow river strung between thick cottonwood trees.
Salma Hayek gathered firewood while John Wayne brought forth a campfire.
As a dull orange sun sliced against a nearby cluster of hills, the pair of riders sat on logs near the fire. They ate jerky and drank red wine from a bottle John Wayne had carried in his saddle bag. “I find it odd,” John Wayne suggested, cautiously appraising Salma Hayek’s deep eyes, “that we are here together after the long ride.”
“Why do your say that? Salma Hayek asked.
John Wayne poked a stick into the fire, formulating his response. “Well, normally when Mitch Hegman writes two famous people into a story, both of them have—what’s the term—“
“Croaked?” Salma Hayek suggested.
“Handed in their dinner pail?”
“Become a landowner?”
“That’s it!” John Wayne said. “Normally these stories only have dead people as characters in them. Why do you suppose we are here? I guess what I mean is…why are you here?”
Salma Hayek did not answer. Her hair glowed red-brunette in the last light of the day. Her dusky eyes drawing in and holding the entire surround. Only then did she realize that maybe she was there only because Mitch Hegman was a little creepy. And this—this was just a cheap way for him to post another photograph of her.