Chapter 26
Poem#6
Dust hangs heavy, sun beat down, Cowboy's eye scans empty town. Not a bird, no rustle near, Just a whisper, full of fear. Horse is twitching, ears held high, Something's wrong beneath the sky. Distant rumble, not of thunder, Something stirring, pulling under. He pulls his reins, a sudden grip, A shadow moves, a sudden slip. Smoke on horizon, thin and gray, Trouble's coming, far away. Heart beats faster, like a drum, Danger's here, it's going to come. He draws his iron, cool and worn, Waiting for the coming morn.
The dust, a constant companion, settled on Silas’s hat and chaps, a testament to the miles he’d already traversed. The sun beat down, a relentless hammer on the parched earth, yet Silas’s gaze never wavered. His horse, Whiskey, nudged his leg, a soft sigh escaping its nostrils. The animal was restless, its ears twitching, sensing something unseen on the wind. Silas’s own senses prickled. The usual chorus of prairie life was muted, almost absent. A profound silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft snort of Whiskey and a distant, unnerving rumble that was not the familiar voice of thunder. His hand instinctively tightened on the reins, his fingers finding the cool, worn metal of his pistol. A shadow, quick and fleeting, seemed to detach itself from the heat haze on the horizon. Then, a wisp of smoke, thin and gray, unfurled against the endless blue. Trouble. The word echoed in the sudden, frantic beat of Silas’s heart. It was coming, a tangible force brewing in the distance, and he drew his iron, the familiar weight a small comfort as he waited for the coming morn.