[center][img]http://www.ducks.org/media/Mississippi/Mississippi%20Projects/_images/msConservationIrby.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][sub][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cXsoRRYf5A]Born Unto Trouble - Red Dead Redemption Soundtrack[/url][/sub][/center]
[hr][hr][center][b][color=steelblue]'Jim' Mitchell[/color][/b][/center][center][sub][color=orange]Just off the Jade Turnpike, four miles due north of Baker's Rest[/color][/sub][/center][center][sub][color=orange]Morning, circa 9 AM[/color][/sub][/center][hr][hr]

[i]The wind began to blow...[/i]

It hit him coarsely across the back, sweeping his long coat. A norther, thought he. It'd only get chillier. He inclined his head, his drab blue eyes looking above, a hand upon his wide hat, and the other holding the reins of Copenhagen, with the wrist resting upon the saddle's pommel. He squinted. Bright, but not many clouds he could see. The trees at least would serve protection, but the damned floodplains chilled his feet when he dismounted, and he was sure it felt no more comfortable for his steed.

Ah, he thought, damned horse has survived this long through colder. He shifted in the saddle, adjusting his woolen blanket tied about his torso slightly before returning it to the pommel. He glanced behind himself, looking upon the cargo tied to the horse. Folded pelts strapped upon, hefty bags of salted and chilled meat. At Copenhagen's front, a neatly crafted pelt, the unmistakable stock of a Sharps protruding from it, and a black bag beside of it.

He thought, felt guilt, steered Copenhagen clear of the shallow waters, despite his wishes to avoid the turnpike. It meant nothing but trouble, the dirt road that ran south, splitting into goat trails up to Baker's Rest. However, he shifted his weight to the left stirrup, and slid himself off with a grunt, planting his feet upon the damp, uneven ground. It'd take a fair bit of time to get to Baker's Rest on foot, no less leading a horse low down with goods. But it was worth it, wouldn't wanna risk the steed collapsing out of exhaustion only three miles in the trek.

He gripped Copenhagen's leather reigns tight, tugging every so slightly forward as he maneuvered the wet ground, stepping over branches and snake burrows with care as he dotted his eyes about, especially to the turnpike only a couple dozen yards to the left. He thought he heard someone call in that moment, and gritted his teeth. Damned fools, he thought as he made full circle, looking to find nothing except the birds chirping their normal tune.

He turned, dismissed it. [color=steelblue]"Old age.."[/color], he muttered quietly as he continued forth. Just barely through the receding treeline due north, he could see the outline. Baker's Rest. He thrusted one foot into the stirrup and dragged himself aboard his trusty steed, and lightly tapped its ribs with the heel of his boots. They moved quicker yet, and the trees ended and the open floodplains began just ahead.