Otatso Wetlands early drinkin' [m]

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late into the second day, colt's fever began to subside. the pain did not. he grunted himself away and found he could roll his head to the other side, pulling his eyelid from the sucking muck. he blinked and winced. "fuck."
he wanted to sit up. it felt hugely monumental. he was swathed in wet things and herbs; he smelled sadey close. and daisy dove. so he relaxed and opted not to screw his ribs up more, or rip his scabs open.
colt briggs lay still and awake, staring up at the overcast autumn sky. he heard nothing save for the roar of blood in his ears. he pulled the faces of the bastards into his mind and recounted every detail he recalled.
and now they'd taken red.
"it ain't over," he growled in a raspy whisper to no one. 
if they'd killed her, he'd end them. and if they hadn't, he'd still go back. honor was at stake. the honor colt had risked and lost. he knew he'd fucked up. but he wouldn't be the one paying a second time over.