Saddle Tramp: Women

The sun was dropping low over the Chihuahuan Desert, turning the vast expanse of Texas scrub and rock into a canvas of bruised purple and burning gold. Nora adjusted her grip on the leather reins, feeling the steady, rhythmic shift of her buckskin horse, Dusty. Behind her, Martha rode a stout bay that had seen more miles than most men in the territory.

They sat in silence, listening to the horses munching contentedly outside. They had only a few dollars between them, a couple of Winchester rifles, and the clothes on their backs. But as the desert stars began to blaze to life through the open doorway, filling the darkness with a brilliant, icy light, neither woman would have traded places with a queen. They were the queens of the endless trail, the women who rode with the wind. If you'd like to explore this world further, let me know: Saddle Tramp Women

By nightfall, they had reached the shack. It was little more than a stack of rotting cedar logs and a stone chimney, but to them, it was a palace. The sun was dropping low over the Chihuahuan

"More of the same," Nora replied, accepting a tin cup of the boiling, bitter brew. "More sky. More dirt. More freedom." They sat in silence, listening to the horses

"There's an abandoned line shack another two miles up by the dry creek," Nora said, squinting against the glare. "We'll make camp there. Plenty of grama grass for the horses."

"My knees are screaming louder than a mountain lion," Martha muttered, her voice gravelly from years of trail dust.