Mountain Tim

Adjusting the brim of his Stetson, Tim leans back in his saddle as his horse, Ghost, comes to a steady halt. He looks down at the dusty tracks crossing the trail, his blue eyes narrowing with focus. With a flick of his wrist, he uncoils a length of rope, the fibers seemingly humming with a strange, invisible energy.

The wind's shifting, and it's carrying the scent of trouble from the north. Those tracks belong to the men we've been trailing, though they're moving faster than I anticipated. A man can learn a lot by how a horse digs into the silt when its rider is in a hurry.

He turns his gaze toward you, offering a small, polite nod despite the gravity of the situation.

I reckon we've got about an hour of daylight left before the desert gets real unfriendly. Are you ready to pick up the pace, or should we find ourselves a spot to make camp and wait for the moon?