the wind that morning was dry and unkind, the kind that scratched the throat and carried the smell of horse sweat and old gunpowder. the plateau stretched wide and cracked beneath the sunlight, a skin of earth gone hard from too many summers without mercy. cattle moved slow across it, a brown tide under a pale sky.
john herdsman rode at the edge of that tide, his eyes narrow beneath the wide, dark-brown slouch hat that had seen more storms than men. his horse, a dapple-gray mare named june, shifted her weight with each uneven patch of ground. john's clothes bore the dust of the land: a red-brick shirt faded at the shoulders, a light brown vest with threads coming loose near the buttons, and a thick blue-gray cardigan that kept the mountain chill from his bones. a green bandana hung loose around his neck, fluttering when the wind rose.
he wasn't a talker. in the cattle trails of frontiearth, silence was worth more than most promises. words could get a man killed; instincts kept him alive.
the herd belonged to the malcolm ranch, one of the largest outfits in the plateau region. john had worked for them five years long enough to know which cowhands drank too much, which ones stole bullets from the supply wagon, and which ones would shoot a man for less than a week's pay.
that morning, he counted thirty-seven heads missing.
"storm took some off the ridge last night," said elijah wright, the trail boss, his voice rough as gravel. "if we don't find 'em by sundown, they're gone to the vale."
the vale wasteland vale was a pit of red dust and lawless men. any cattle that wandered there became someone else's by dusk.
john nodded. "i'll go look."
elijah spat. "alone? them bandits been seen near the creek road. you go down there, you'll get yourself branded for real."
john didn't answer. he tightened the strap of his lever-action rifle, the winchester 1873, across his back. the gun wasn't shiny anymore. the steel was worn dull from rain, blood, and time.
he rode south, where the land sloped toward the dry riverbed.
the world out there was honest in its cruelty. the wind cut through every lie. the sun burned the weak clean off the map. every man carried his history like a scar; john carried his in silence.
the first trace of the missing cattle appeared near an old fence line: hoofprints half-covered by dust, leading toward the ruins of a water station abandoned since the war. john dismounted, crouched, and touched the ground. still warm. they passed not an hour ago.
but the tracks split. some headed west toward the vale, others circled north too precise to be cattle alone.
humans. riders.
john's hand brushed the rifle's lever. he listened. the air itself had a rhythm in the plateau; it shifted when death came close. and now, the rhythm changed three horses, fast, from the east.
he slid behind a fallen beam, waited.
three figures appeared: bandits, judging by the coats patched from stolen leather. one of them carried a sack still dripping blood fresh meat, not from cattle.
they spoke low, but john heard enough.
"…marshal says to move the shipment tonight," one said. "guns go through deadwood first. the ranch gets its cut, we get ours."
"and the herders?" asked another.
"we'll silence whoever starts asking."
john's pulse steadied. not fear instinct. the words marshal and shipment tangled in his mind like barbed wire. the ranch wasn't just moving cattle. it was moving weapons. through wasteland vale.
he stayed still until they passed, then stood. his boots pressed deep into the dry earth.
he looked down at his hand. it trembled not from weakness, but from the strange heat that had lived there since the explosion in the storage barn two nights ago. the skin had blistered in the shape of a burn, a mark that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
at first, he thought it was fever. now, he wasn't sure. when the bandits rode by, he had felt their intent like static crawling under his skin. he could sense the moment they decided to kill.
it wasn't natural.
john mounted june again and turned toward camp. the sun had climbed high, flattening shadows across the plain.
he rode hard, dust curling behind him.
by the time he returned, elijah was waiting near the corral, smoking a rolled cigarette. "find 'em?"
"not the cattle," john said. "found men. moving guns. your men."
elijah's eyes narrowed. "you best not be sayin' what i think you are."
"you already know what i'm sayin'."
for a moment, nothing but wind passed between them. then elijah dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and reached for his revolver.
john didn't think he moved. his brand pulsed, and time slowed just enough for him to feel the shape of violence before it happened. his rifle snapped up, the lever clicked, and the shot cut through the air like truth.
elijah fell.
silence again. only the cattle watched, their eyes blank and ancient.
john stood over the man who had once given him work and shelter. he looked at his own trembling hands, then at the gun, then at the horizon toward deadwood, toward the corruption that ran deeper than the sand.
he knew what came next. they'd call him a traitor, a murderer, an outlaw.
but for the first time in years, he felt something close to clarity.
he holstered his rifle, mounted june, and whispered, "we ride."
the plateau wind rose behind him, carrying the smell of iron and thunder, as if the land itself had branded his fate.
and in the distance, beyond the shimmer of heat, the west waited vast, unforgiving, and full of ghosts that still remembered their names.