Blindfold?

  Umberto closed his eyes to the golden sand dunes before him, perhaps for the last time. The sun was really getting to him now, beating down on his head like a hammer. His thoughts flitted around his hot house of a skull, flashing through the highlights of his life, but mostly descending into rambling musings of his current predicament.
  There was little feeling below the neck, just a vague sense of claustrophobia. His body at least was escaping the sun, but it was also completely immobile - buried in the sand. His head was a lone orb on a sea of yellow, with nothing but a clump of brown hair between it and the burning sun.
  His restless thoughts began to settle down, stifled by the immense heat. The last discernable one that whispered to him before it too drifted off to sleep said, ‘You did well Umberto, rest now old friend. Rest in pea-’
  There’s nothing more invigorating than a sharp kick in the back of the head, which is what Umberto received at that exact moment. He collected his thoughts so fast they didn’t know what hit them. His eyes opened just in time to see a man tumble over his head and land sprawling on the sand before him.
  Umberto frankly couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d had enough experience with the desert to know that it played cruel tricks on a man’s mind – the teasing image of an oasis shimmering in the distance being the cruelest. He closed his eyes again - the lying bastards!
  But… there was that throbbing pain in the back of his head… Umberto considered this for a moment then decided, ‘yes, that really hurts.’ He opened his eyes again, giving them a second chance.
  If Umberto’s eyes could be trusted, they told him that a man dressed head to toe in black was before him. He had pulled himself up onto his knees and was replacing a large black sombrero on his head. “Sorry about that,” he said casually, “I didn’t notice you there.”
  “Didn’t notice me?” Umberto wheezed through a bone dry throat. “See many heads around here?”
  Umberto had always trusted his ears, even after ten hours under the sizzling desert sun he felt sure they wouldn’t lie to him. That’s why the next sentence they claimed they heard shocked him.
  “Well it’s a hazard, leaving large objects lying about the place. I could have broken my neck!”
  Umberto thought for a moment, considering writing this offensive man off as a mirage, but his situation was somewhat dire, so decided to engage him further. “Are you calling my head large?”
  The man absently brushed sand off his shirt and trousers. “I was a bit distracted,” he replied looking off into the distance. “Didn’t see you… that is, your head sitting there.”
  Umberto was developing an itch somewhere in the vicinity of his left big toe, which was inconveniently about five foot underground. “Distracted by what?”
  The man glanced quizzically at Umberto for a moment then back to the horizon. “By that,” he indicated a section of endless sand dunes not unlike the rest of the endless sand dunes that rolled off in every direction.
  Umberto squinted, shook his head, squinted some more, then closed his eyes and told his ears not to bother him any more. They didn’t listen.
  “I’m dying of thirst,” the man said, “quite literally.”
  “I’m also dying,” Umberto rasped, “of heat, sun, thirst and impatience! Would it trouble you greatly to get me out of here?”
  The man looked at Umberto’s head, lying there in the sand. He tried to imagine what kind of body was attached to it. Was he a strong man? Was he dangerous? It was difficult just looking at that red face and mess of brown hair. His neck was thick, which usually meant broad shoulders and powerful arms. His own shoulders were rather narrow and arms long and wiry. On the other hand a thick neck could simply mean a staunch gut and constant hampering for nachos. What about the eyes? They were dark, narrow and calculating. Could he be trusted?
  “I assume you didn’t bury yourself in the sand now did you?” He eventually said. “I must ask myself, what if you are a dangerous criminal and once I dig you out you kill me?”
  “You have a gun.”
  The man looked at the strap on his shoulder where a rifle was slung across and a coy smile escaped him. “Ah of course; Jezebel…” he stroked the barrel tenderly, “I never travel without her.
  ‘Please forgive me, how could I ignore the suffering of a fellow man. I am just having some amusement at your expense.”
  The rifle slipped from his shoulder and was placed carefully on the sand by Umberto. Ornate carvings weaved around its wooden handle, like seductive tattoos on a woman’s thigh. The trigger, Umberto couldn’t help but notice was well worn from use.
  “Here my friend.” The man removed his sombrero and put it on Umberto’s head, “some relief from the sun.”
  Beneath the hat was a thick head of short black hair, even furrows ran through it where a comb had earlier ploughed. The face too showed signs of personal care; a neatly trimmed moustache, the rest of the chin carefully shaved. “Let’s get you out of there.” The man began drawing large scoops of sand away with his hands.
  Deeper underground Umberto twitched his toes and fingers as best he could in their compressed surroundings. It helped the blood star slowly returning to his limbs, just as the shade of the sombrero helped his thoughts started gathering together in his brain. “Tell me, what was it that you were distracted by?”
  The man dragged another large scoop of sand away to reveal that the thick neck was indeed connected to a wide set of shoulders. “Your turn to jest with me,” he laughed, “there’s an oasis right in front of you.”
  “Oasis?”
  Another large scoop of sand excavated the upper part of Umberto’s right arm, his fingers tingled.
  “Yes, oasis,” the man replied, his eyes on the sand.
  “You’re head’s had more sun than mine, there’s no oasis.”
  The sand stopped moving from around Umberto, except for tiny avalanches that tumbled back into the hole. Silence reigned for a long while, broken only by the whisper of trickling sand.
  Umberto’s eyes looked at the gun lying by his head, then at the man looking at the horizon, then at the endless rows of sand dunes dancing slightly from left to right in the haze. He looked at the gun again. Jezebel the man had called it. He wiggled his fingers in the loosening sand.
  Palm trees were rooted along the edge, dipping the tips of their fronds into the water. The man had always trusted his eyes, they never lied to him. The oaths and assurances of others were fickle, but what he could see himself was the truth. He could trust his eyes.
  “It’s a mirage,” said a ragged voice behind him. “It’s an illusion.”
  He had first seen it an hour ago, sighting it after scaling a particularly large sand dune. It looked about a mile away, perhaps two, or possibly three, who could judge distances in this endless desert?
  Now he was so close he could count how many trees cast their shade across the water, seven, eight, nine, or maybe ten, only one mile away, or possibly two, who could judge distances in this endless desert?
  The sun was beating down on his head like a hammer. He turned back to Umberto, who was twisting his shoulder attempting to get his arm out of the sand. It trickled slowly back all around him ever time he twisted.
  “The oasis,” the man said, “do you see it?”
  Umberto stopped twisting, but the sand continued to trickle. “I see desert, nothing but desert.”
  The man paused for some time and stared at the dark narrow eyes of Umberto.
  “Are you going to try to kill me?”
  “No,” Umberto said, “you have a gun.”
  “Yes, I do,” the man grabbed the gun and slung it over his shoulder. Then took the sombrero from Umberto’s head and put it on his own.
  “Then let’s get you out of there.” He plunged his hands into the sand and started digging.