20 In 5 -- Vol. II -- Indian Summer

A man's gotta have priorities, right?

Seven miles to go… The horse died back near Turner’s Point, its body so flecked with foam he went from roan to palomino. It coughed a bloody froth, lurched with stiff legs and collapsed into the sand with a hideous scream. Hank barely jumped off in time, rolling badly over his left shoulder, now swollen and scraped raw from the gravel.


The saddlebags were blazing heavy, stuffed with the envelopes and small parcels coming through Cheyenne, on the edge of the prairie. Here in the Bad Lands, the godforsaken range of the Dakotas, the summer heat cooked everything: Even canvas could get scorching hot. Hank had grown up in Oklahoma, where even the worst summer heat was broken up by a soft breeze. But not in the Bad Lands. The only breeze here died with his horse.


Hank looked up. The sun was nearly overhead, which meant he had three, maybe four hours to make it to Lewisburg Station, the three-shack train stop that would take the mail past Fargo and into civilization. If Hank was late, the mail wouldn’t go through. That had never happened and the Pony Express was fiercely proud of that. Worse than that, though, was that late mail meant Hank didn’t get paid. Hell or high water, he was going to make that train.


The distant shimmy kept looking like water, even when Hank knew it wasn’t. His throat was parched and the skin on his hands was beginning to feel tender to the touch from the intense sun. The saddlebags dragged at him as he slogged through the barren Lands, his eyes flickering around to check for Indians. The Dakotas were not as bad as the Sioux or the Navajo, but they would make short work of a man alone, on foot and unarmed. Hank cursed the idiocy of not packing a Colt through these parts, but the Express was strict about that rule: No guns. They wanted their riders to avoid trouble, not make it.


Maybe six miles to go… Hank shifted the saddlebags again and wondered if he could toss out some items to make them lighter. He cursed inwardly, ashamed at his weakness, but debating the chance anyone would know if he did it. It was high noon, as his shadow had virtually disappeared beneath his dusty boots. Hank tried to lick his lips and found them cracked, his tongue thick and dry. He grabbed a pebble and popped it into his mouth. Anything to get some moisture in there.


The arrow [Continued in Volune II of  "20in5"]. Please purchase a copy today to finish "Indian Summer" available directly from Smashwords in a variety of e-book formats. Or you can purchase it from the Mis Tribus eBook Store. 


Included are the ending to "His Time Has Come" along with 19 other flash fiction stories. Brought to you directly by Mis Tribus.