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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2531652" data-attributes="member: 26473">Insuring that the horses and mules were prepared for the trip and securing fodder for the stock and extra rations for himself had filled Dakota’s time in town. The wrangler wasn’t bothered by heading out on the trail so quickly – weeks and months spent on the prairie among violent thunderstorms, swirling tornadoes, stampeding cattle, angry rattlesnakes, and jittery horses often proved safer than one night in a strange town.It was also a relief to be busy, not to dwell on the marshal’s words around the campfire. Though he was only vaguely aware of it, the cowhand inherited many of the superstitions found among the cowboys, trappers, and scouts of the plains. Seeing to the stock was a familiar routine that helped ease his mind somewhat, and now he sits near the campfire singing as he does most nights on the trail, the story of the deputy nearly forgotten.The song dies in his throat when Riley’s head snaps up and Dakota sees the fur-clad figure lumbering through the drifted snow. The wrangler reaches for his Winchester and chambers a shell, the *CLICK-CLACK!* of the lever audible as a snapping branch in the wintry night.</blockquote>