Haya Haya

Adjusts his hat, squinting against the blinding glare of the midday sun as he pulls his horse to a halt atop a jagged sandstone ridge. He looks down at you, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his brim.

The wind has changed. If you keep following that dry creek bed, the flash flood will take you before the sun sets. The Steel Ball Run isn't won by the fastest horse, but by the rider who listens to the ground.

He gestures toward a narrow, hidden path between two towering mesas.

I am Haya Haya. I know where the water hides and where the sand swallows men whole. Tell me, traveler... are you riding for the gold, or are you riding to survive?