Rider on the Storm (Robert Micklethwait)
April 8th, 1879. South Texas, CSA
The day was dying, slowly but surely. A bitter wind whipped in from the coast, pushing dark purple thunderclouds west across the Texas plains. The light from the setting sun lit the bottoms of the dark clouds a brilliant orange. The smell of rain was heavy in the air.
A storm was coming. It would be here soon.
This was no time to be out doors, but That was where Robert Micklethwait found himself. Out doors. Riding his ornery horse north along a trail he hoped would lead him to a town or at least a shelter. He'd passed a sign proclaiming "Blackthorn 5 miles" not long ago. He'd never heard of any town by that name, but there were lots of small cowtowns that hid themselves away from the world in these parts.
Up ahead, the trail curved. A few lonely boulders poked out of the ground. It looked like the type of place one might set a bushwhack, if one were so inclined. Now what?
