The chinook wind roared through the plain; a welcome respite from the bitter cold of the winter, and billowed the worn, ratty cape of the man standing there. The snow still lay waist deep for miles, but with the temperature creeping slightly above zero, the scattered farms of the frontier would open their doors to let the surviving cows have a walk and breath of sweet air before the winter closed it’s cruel fist once more and battered the buildings with snow and cold.
This was only of peripheral concern to the caped man; he was no farmer. He tilted hat up a bit and looked around at the empty sea of snow that surrounded him, unmarked but for the drift-filled path that ran between Scott City and Dighton.