She wondered how long she'd been down there. How much closer the hombre had come.
The man looked comical, running and hopping stark-naked, his pants and shoes in his hand. The moon shone cruelly upon him, making him an easy target against the prickly cactus guards of the desert.
He raced ahead of the husband with his shotgun and his yelping yellow curs. At the foot of the hills he stopped, his breath loud to his ears. Behind him, the frustrated baying of the dogs. He looked up into the night and grinned. "José, you dumb jackass," he said to himself, "someday, you're going to get yourself killed."
In the single ray of light that found a way by her, dried sausages hung on a wall. Then she saw the image of the rifle on the porch, left leaning on the wall in plain sight.
Yolanda labored up the last few stairs as quickly as she was able.