Dust of a Man

The road stretched long and empty, a thin trail of dust curling in the wind. Sagebrush whispered across the desert flats, and the far-off humps of the mountains glowed red in the dying sun.

A lone figure trudged along, his boots far too delicate for the grit of Nevada, his coat tailored for a city’s chill rather than the raw honesty of the open land. His name, had he any claim to it, was Michael Rutherford.

He had been a man of books and parlors once, a gentleman of San Francisco, before the walls of that world had closed in on him, stifling and unyielding. There had been something missing, something stolen, though by whom or what, he could not say.

He had come eastward in search of it. Manhood and identity. Aspects that a man often fails to consider until they are lost.

The wind carried the scent of horse and sweat before the sound followed. Hooves drumming the hard-packed earth.

A rider came into view, the kind of man Michael had seen only in paintings and the fevered stories of dime novels. He rode easy–like the saddle was merely an extension of himself, his hat slanted against the sun.

Jack Tanner was young, lean, and sharp-eyed. He looked like a man who had never asked permission to live how he pleased. There was no pretension about him—he was the West, the kind of man that had built and shaped it and would still be here long after softer men had turned tail for comfort.

Jack reined in, regarding Michael with an amused squint.

“You lost?” he asked.

Michael hesitated. “No. But I imagine I look it.”

Jack’s grin was a quick thing, there and gone. “Can’t say you don’t. Road don’t see many men dressed like you.”

Michael smiled wryly. “And what kind does it see?”

Jack shrugged. “A man with a place to go and a reason to be there.”

The words stung, not for their bluntness but for their truth. Michael had neither.

Michael studied Jack in the fading light, the way he sat his horse, the quiet confidence in his posture. Here was a man who belonged to his world in a way Michael had never belonged to any.

Jack nudged his horse forward. “Town’s another five miles. If you’re set on walkin’, it’ll be a long haul. If you ain’t too proud, you can ride along.”

Pride. The word stuck. Michael nodded. “I’d be grateful.”

Jack swung a leg over and dropped lightly to the ground, offering the reins. “Good. Let’s see if you can ride.”

Michael took them, stiff fingers curling over leather. The horse was warm beneath his touch, alive from any beast he had known. Jack watched as he climbed awkwardly into the saddle, withholding comment but not humor.

“You grip that saddle like it’s fixin’ to throw you,” Jack remarked.

Michael let out a breath. “It might.”

Jack laughed. “Then it’s a fine place to start.”

The horse shifted beneath him, but Michael held on, the dust rising around them as they set off toward the horizon.