Ain't Talkin'

Some mornings in the Mojave it seemed the sun needed to stretch it’s golden arms and wake up slowly. Some mornings it snapped awake like an eyelid after a bad dream. The next morning was the latter.

Roche sat up from the sand. The fire had gone out hours ago and he had slept, albeit uncomfortably, with his hat under his head and his hands in his pockets on his revolvers.

Brushing the dust from his coat, the sun clipping over the dunes onto the oilskin jacket over his shoulders, Roche looked west where the oil derricks lined themselves keenly up.

Beyond those derricks, and another some miles was the Emporium.

Roche lit a cigarette and started walking.