The Last Mutant SFSD 6 Round IV

Dead Man's Drift

The sun hung low in the sky, sinking into the mountains behind the remote outpost of Dead Man’s Drift where the air was almost as dry as the ground below.  Clouds wandered their way through the Troposphere bathed in violent hues of copper, crimson and rust - as full as they were, they would not disgorge themselves here - come nightfall they would blow away on the breeze.

A lone horse and its rider emerged from the shade of the mountains.  Holding the reins loosely, the rider guided the beast towards mouth of main street before drawing to a halt.  They cast a lonely, elongated shadow between the ramshackle buildings while the rider surveyed the outpost with experienced eyes.

The air felt stagnant and oppressive; the climate of Dead Man’s Drift could be described as scorching at best, bordering on caustic when the sun was at its peak.  The last natural wind to pass through had disrupted the sand-like dirt and started a landslide which buried over fifty men alive and gave the town its name.

The horse was urged onwards with a click of the rider’s tongue, its hooves silenced by the dust until the darkened mouth of an open fronted barn beckoned and they slipped inside.  Swinging one leg over the pommel, the rider dropped silently to the ground and turned to undo the cinch and flank strap which had secured the saddle before settling it upon a low slung beam nearby.

The Mustang’s bridle quickly followed, replaced by a worn rope halter knotted around one of the barn’s hitching posts and the powerful beast lowered its head to drink noisily from the water trough running around the inside walls of the building.  By the time its thirst was quenched the rider was long gone.