The wind cuts sharp across the plains, carrying dust and the smell of dry grass. Far off, mountains sit dark against a sky too wide to take in all at once. The trail stretches forward, hoof-beaten earth and scattered stones, the kind of road that's been traveled by men who had somewhere to be and no time to admire the view.

Around you, the world is quiet but not empty. Somewhere behind a ridge, cattle low. A hawk circles high up, patient. The sun's position suggests late afternoon — still hours before dark, but the quality of light has already begun to shift, turning everything a little more golden, a little more urgent.

You're on horseback. The animal beneath you is warm, solid, breathing steady. Its ears flick forward and back, tracking sounds you can't hear yet. The saddle creaks when you shift your weight. Your supplies are strapped behind you — whatever you thought you'd need for wherever you're headed.

Ahead, maybe a mile out, you can just make out the shape of a town. Low buildings, smoke rising from a few chimneys. The kind of place that probably has a saloon, a general store, a sheriff who's either lazy or dead. The kind of place where strangers are noticed.

The horse snorts, shakes its head. Keeps walking without being asked.

You're alone right now. That could change. The world's full of people with their own plans — some of them good, most of them not. Out here, you meet whoever crosses your path, and you deal with it.

The town's name, if it has one worth remembering, isn't visible yet from this distance. Just the vague promise of walls and people and whatever trouble or opportunity waits inside.

The wind picks up again. Your horse's mane lifts, falls. The road continues.