The Cottonwoods

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It was windless and still, but the smell of death was unmistakable.

He came on the stand of cottonwoods in late afternoon. The day was still punishingly hot, and he and the claybank mare were alike grateful for the shade and water. Cottonwoods were known for liking their feet wet, so to speak, growing along streambeds. It was early June, and the seedpods had ripened and burst. The earth was feathered with them, soft as air, like snowflakes dusting the ground, too light to settle and melt, the windblown seedlings looking for an opportunity to root.

Moving under the trees, the claybank shied, catching the scent first, and Placido Geist dismounted, knowing the mare had her own queer horse reasons. It was windless and still, but the smell of death was unmistakable, ripe as the seedpods of the cottonwoods. He tied the reins off to a branch and walked down toward the creek bed, gun in hand, cautious of surprise. He was all too aware of what he was likely to find.

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