The Wager

A winter's night is dryer than the oldest leaf. At least, that's how it felt to Canon as he walked along the creek bed on the frosty October morning. "2:50 a.m. and I'm still here, to think that…" Canon shook his head as his words seemed to disappear into the sound of the leaves crunching under his steel-toe boots. "Riley…" Nothing. "RILEY!" Canons voice cracked at it bounced off the smooth bark of every tree in the woods. With each, breath, Canon, took, the air refused to falter, breaching was the dryness in his throat. As Canon approached the camp fire and fondled the butt of his six-shooter .22 bird shot pistol. Canon was a man of odds, he knew nobody but Riley could be at the clearing. He'd been watching for tracks for the last 3 days, or was it 2? Time seems to run together when you're playing cat and mouse. No matter, Riley always dozes off this late, he doesn't know what I know. After all, it was his first time out on the Hay Trail…

to be continued.