Henry crossed the Sweetwater for the third time that day. He was thick in Cheyenne country, or so cautioned the pamphlet that had lured him on this journey. He had not seen a living soul since Jackson. The pamphlet had been right about little, Henry mused as he wiped the film of sweat and dust from his forehead. With providence, the land of Oregon would be as rich as promised. Leaving Ohio seemed rash when he considered the miles of barren land he’d seen since Laramie. What manner of people would choose to live here?
And then, he saw them.
It seems like every time I try to toss my hat in the ring for the Fictioneers, I get busy with one thing or another and do not get a chance to read and respond to all the Fictioneers like I mean to. This week looks better, so here I am, showing up for the party.