[b][u][color=darkorange]Off Chisholm Trail, Near to Selina[/color][/u][/b]

Clomping off through the dirt and leaves the driver makes his way back to the coach cursing under his breath.  "Come on Jeff," he calls to the coachman, "leave it to these here foreign fellas.  We ain't paid but to run the wagon."

More reluctantly the coachman heads back on still slightly wobbly legs, careful not to step in the blood of the recently deceased.  Behind him one of them foreigners, the Frenchman LeBlanc, still covering the body with his rifle called out to his compatriots,

"Do what you have to do with these damn bodies, and then lets get the hell out of here! What ever killed these may still be around..."

Before the other two could join their compatriot, as if in reply to LeBlanc's warning, a deep rolling growl sounded from somewhere nearby and low to the ground.  At the sound of the growl the coachman pauses, not quite fearless enough to return but proud enough to consider it, before being ushered to the coach by the driver.  Whatever the hell that damn thing were it's exact location was indistinguishable except for one thing, it sure as hell weren't in the wagon.  Wherever the damn thing were it were a ways out and it were certainly somewheres in the brush and bushes between LeBlanc and his compatriots, and if that impossibly faint intermittent sound of shifting brush were any indicator, the damn thing were stalking.