Martha smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. "Good. I was worried it might be getting crowded."
They were saddle tramps. It was a title given by townsfolk with a mix of sneer and awe, reserved for those who wandered from ranch to ranch on horseback, trading hard labor for a warm meal and a place to sleep before moving on to the next horizon. Most saddle tramps were men, but Nora and Martha had carved out their own space in the wild dust.
"My knees are screaming louder than a mountain lion," Martha muttered, her voice gravelly from years of trail dust.
"There's an abandoned line shack another two miles up by the dry creek," Nora said, squinting against the glare. "We'll make camp there. Plenty of grama grass for the horses."
Nora unsaddled the horses, checking their backs for sores and rubbing them down with a handful of dry grama grass. Martha got a small, smokeless fire going in the hearth, throwing a handful of Arbuckle's coffee beans into a blackened tin pot.
Should I add a to the story, like a runaway or a sheriff? I can expand this story in whatever direction you choose!
"More of the same," Nora replied, accepting a tin cup of the boiling, bitter brew. "More sky. More dirt. More freedom."
Martha smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. "Good. I was worried it might be getting crowded."
They were saddle tramps. It was a title given by townsfolk with a mix of sneer and awe, reserved for those who wandered from ranch to ranch on horseback, trading hard labor for a warm meal and a place to sleep before moving on to the next horizon. Most saddle tramps were men, but Nora and Martha had carved out their own space in the wild dust. Saddle Tramp Women
"My knees are screaming louder than a mountain lion," Martha muttered, her voice gravelly from years of trail dust. Martha smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening
"There's an abandoned line shack another two miles up by the dry creek," Nora said, squinting against the glare. "We'll make camp there. Plenty of grama grass for the horses." It was a title given by townsfolk with
Nora unsaddled the horses, checking their backs for sores and rubbing them down with a handful of dry grama grass. Martha got a small, smokeless fire going in the hearth, throwing a handful of Arbuckle's coffee beans into a blackened tin pot.
Should I add a to the story, like a runaway or a sheriff? I can expand this story in whatever direction you choose!
"More of the same," Nora replied, accepting a tin cup of the boiling, bitter brew. "More sky. More dirt. More freedom."