Jo13579

For several months I had been wandering the vast prairies of North America. Between the Mississippi and the Rockies I had experienced many an adventure, but I remembered the agreement I had made with my red brother. In the Sierra Madre we were to meet, by a clear mountain stream, as soon as the solitary old oak standing there cast a shadow at noon, the length of which was five times mine. In the distance, above the craggy peaks of the Sierra, I see the sun rising, its warm rays tickling my face. Morning dew is visible on the grasses and herbs. Mugwort, which Indian squaws burn in their tents, and wild thyme, whose spice the northern hunter knows to use for roasting elk, spread an oily odor. An aromatic haze rises from the grass surrounding me, its swathes soon succumbing to the warmth of the rapidly rising sun. Until noon I ride further and further into the Sierra. The barren slopes and dry shrubs scratch my nose slightly, but are still caught by the sound of the cool, clear stream, near which I catch sight of the withered, yet still majestic oak. My brother is not to be seen, but I notice that in a knothole of the tree there is an equally withered branch, which, however, comes from a spruce. This must have been brought from the north, and when I pull it out I am confirmed in my suspicions. A piece of paper is wrapped around it, and in meticulous, beautiful handwriting a short message is written, urging me to hurry to the Río Pecos. A mutual friend was in danger, and together we had to come to his aid in the drought of the Staked Plains. After my black horse has drunk from the water of the stream, I set off south. The leisurely trot of the morning has given way to a sustained gallop as soon as the last hills of the Sierra have given way to the dry tall grass of the steppe. The hoofs of the sturdy Arab stir up the dust that settles on the parched yellow grasses. The afternoon sun is pleasantly warming, as the blistering heat of late summer has long since given way to the mild rays of autumn. So I make my camp in the darkness, warming myself by the light and gentle smoke of the dry fires, to ride with the rising sun toward the river, whose moist coolness will wipe away the last traces of the smell of the prairie.

Thanks to Medianus for the sample, Chizza for his inspiring, beautiful comment below mine, and Mr. May for letting me borrow my words from the beginning of one of his works ;-) Old Surehand I is recommended to everyone at this point.