The hot sun bore down mercilessly on the already parched prairie, and the searing heat sent shimmering little waves up all around. The smell in the air was that of bread baking in an oven. A hot, stuffy breeze disturbed the stillness, making its way among the dead grasses and rustling them gently. The breeze was the only thing that dared disturb the silence at that moment, and then, a rider came up over a nearby knoll, and the low clopping of the horse's hooves could be heard. The horse itself looked to be a mustang, tall and strong, with a clean, shining black coat and a white blaze going down the front of its face. The rider wore a leather hat pulled down low, a pair of blue, faded, patched jeans, a flannel shirt, and a rather plain gun belt with boots that matched it. A long, dark orange braid hung down the riders back, and her dark emerald green eyes studied the pale green tree line on the edge of the horizon. There, nestled among those trees, was a river, and a town named Rio Tranquilo. Near that town was a newly opened cattle trail named, "White River," and on it, she knew, was a shorthanded herd of three thousand three hundred thirsty cattle. She gave her horse, which she had named Thunderbolt, a stout kick in both sides, and he accordingly broke into a canter. If I make dust I can be there by nightfall. She loosed her canteen from the horn of her worn saddle and took a long drink of the warm, somewhat stale water, and then she held out the canteen and let the last precious drops dribble down onto the yellow-brown grasses. She hung the canteen back on the saddle-horn and then steering with her left hand; she unlaced one of her saddlebags and pulled out an old harmonica. The tune drifted out over the lonesome, hot prairie, and lost itself in the silence.
The night was quite dark, and it had cooled somewhat as she rode into the tiny little town of Rio Tranquilo. The streets were bare of people and most of the buildings were closed, all except for the saloon, one hotel and a stable.
She pulled her horse to a stop in front of the hotel, which had a sign that read, "Bart's Hotel and Livery Stable," and dismounted in a swift, graceful movement. She flipped a rein around the hitching post, and turned slightly towards Thunderbolt, "I'll be back in a minute, boy." The horse snorted and pawed at the dusty ground in reply.
She stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel and opened the door. The little room which she stepped into was stuffy and dimly lit. The furnishings consisted of a counter, a rickety looking strong box, and a couple of old dining room chairs. A middle-aged man stood at the counter shuffling through various papers. He turned up the little kerosene lamp standing on the counter and motioned her forward. She stepped up to the counter as directed. He didn't bother to look up but simply said, "You're lookin' for a room and stablin' for one horse, right mister?"
She didn't even pause at the "mister", but replied with a quick, "Right."
The man looked up with a startled expression, and then he went red and stammered, "M-m-iss, I'm right sorry, I thought you was a ma—well..."
"Don't worry about it. How much does it cost for—hmm, say, two days for my horse and me to stay here?"
"Three dollars a day, for lodging and two meals a day, for both you and your horse, Miss."
"Seems fair enough."
He nodded and opened the big leather-bound book on the counter and said, "Just sign your name here Miss."
She took the big feather pen he handed her and dipped it carefully in a little ink, and then she quickly scrawled the name Samantha J. Saunders in small, neat letters. He took the pen back and then glanced at the name on the yellowed paper, and then he glanced again, looking surprised. He closed the book quickly and simply said, "I'll call one of the boys to put up your horse. Your room is eight, the key's right here. Just go straight up those stairs and to the left, you can't miss it. You can pay three now and three day after tomorrow when you leave."
Samantha nodded and took the key after giving him the money, "Don't bother calling anyone; I'll stable the horse myself. He doesn't like strangers."
Samantha stabled Thunderbolt and after making doubly sure he was safe and comfortable, and then she went back to the hotel and climbed the aforementioned stairs to a dark, stuffy hall lined with doors. Sam quickly sought out number eight and opened it up, stepping into an almost pitch-black, equally stuffy room. She quickly lit the lamp and opened the curtains, throwing open the rather large window to let the fresher air in.
Samantha turned from the window to get a good look at the room. Across from her was the door, and to her left was the big double bed. The bed had two lumpy looking pillows at its head, with two yellowish, dirty looking shams covering them. There were equally yellow sheets, and a patchwork quilt folded haphazardly at the foot of the bed. At the foot of the bed was a small dresser, and on the left side of the bed (she was standing to its right) was a lumpy looking overstuffed chair with a coffee table in front of it. Judging by the dusty boot marks on said table, it was probably safe to assume it had not been used for its original purpose. On the right side of the room there were a small table and a wooden chair, and then the washbasin sitting on a little stand with a handy roller towel above it.
Sam made her way to the basin and poured herself a small amount of clean water with which she scrubbed her hands and her face with. She dried her hands on the roller towel and then rummaged in her saddlebags for a tin cup, which she poured some more clean water into and then thirstily drank it. After this, she pulled off her boots and unfastened her gun belt. Samantha stripped the bed completely before she laid down, piling the dirty sheets and such on the overstuffed chair. She drifted into a deep sleep.
