Storm Watch Butte gunslinger I

Wah-dur, he mimicked. He should know this word. Something to do with food, maybe. Was there a lower rung on the hierarchy of needs?

Colt was careful. Lynx, less so. He left the foothold that the cowboy had so graciously found for him. Beneath an outstretched paw, the sandstone began to crumble.

His flailing paws missed purchase by a hair. He tumbled down the butte with all the grace of a barrel going down Niagara... landing flat on his back on the hard, gritty scree.

Winded, he found just enough air to breathe:

Arhídeea.

Warped through watery eyes, Colt was a massive desert tarantula, complete with ornery mandibles and bristling hairs.

Lynx smiled weakly to communicate that he was not dead, nor seriously injured.