Storm Watch Butte gunslinger I

the height of irony, to go from caretaker to pack leader to mentor — again. colt descended in a proper fashion and shambled toward the downed boy and his moistened eyes. "got the wind plumb knocked outta yew, huh, youngblood?" briggs mocked in a crow, only when it was apparent the other was not truly harmed saved for a bruised ego.
but he extended his rawboned arm next, hoping to pull the kid up. "no more'o that till we find water," colt ordered firmly, then cut his eyes out from under the butte, taking the wet fragrance lingering in the atmosphere.
there was water here, stale, warm streams choked with new sand. he snorted in disgust and turned away. "might be cleaner lakes," due south, in a locale called bismuth, though colt could not know that. he glanced upward at the hot sky. it was mercurial for even a short walk, but briggs didn't want to chance another of those gritty geysers.
when lynx was ready, he set off at a ground-eating trot.