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Abel pulls the body from atop the White Horse, horrified as it falls to the ground. He nervously sits and waits.

Sure enough, the vultures - his only friends - descend onto the small plateau and begin tearing and ripping at the mans cooling flesh.

Abel can barely watch.

Abel turns, and leads the White Horse down the rocky slope. On the way, he passes one of the bubbling, viscous tar pits that dot the whole valley. He pulls out Jeb's rifle and throws it into the glistening, black sheen. It lays on top for a moment, then slowly sinks, swallowed whole.

Abel mounts the White Horse, takes the dead man's knife from a saddlebag, grasps his long black hair and roughly saws away at it. The hair falls away in thick clumps.

Abel Hall, the murdering Half-Breed Comanche, is dead. This is a new man. A new identity. Expensive Clothes. A fine horse. He's dark-skinned, sure, but with his blue-eyes, fathers features and short hair, he could be any cowboy roaming the west.

He rides off towards the badlands & his destiny.