Walkers Creek - A Western

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The explosion shakes the valley. The cabin is ripped apart in a ball of flame. Shards of splintered wood rattle in the leaves of the trees where Logan stands soothing the frightened horses.

The remains of the cabin smolder, the fire extinguished by the force of the explosion that started it. The brickwork of the hearth pokes out from the broken timbers. A piece of cloth snagged on a broken post flutters in the breeze like a flag of truce. Smoke drifts silently.

There were no screams or cries from the blasted house. No signs of life at all. He turns away, satisfied at a job well done and saddles up one of the horses and reties the load on the other. The mining equipment clanks and rattles on the pack horse as it shuffles, still nervous from the blast. He is unhurried, talking all the while in a soothing tone to the horses, but he isn't wasting time. There will be people arriving soon, drawn by the sound and rising smoke, and he needs to be well away from here by then. He mounts up and kicks the horses into motion, giving no thought to concealing his trail as he leads the pack horse along the wide trail through the trees. People will come but they will be excited fools from the town with no tracking sense at all. They will stamp all over any signs that he leaves. He's done this before. He is certain he will be safe.

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