‘Does this look like Coast Salish Territory to you?’

The three fighters looked around, not a word said between them. The burnt sky was a swirling slurrey of clouds. Through them, countless blood red fangs the size of upset mountains raked the landscape. From above, a rustling puzzle of lights loomed far off in the distance.

The air felt thin then. They finally searched each others’ eyes for something familiar, but for all their separate journeys, this was uncharted territory. More nightmare than new frontier, they stood surveying legion dust devils’ red dance.

Cromac finally lit a cigarette, and said “we must have taken a wrong turn.”

Boss Bass pawed his face with a big mitt. He squinted around slowly, then with a groan, dropped onto his rump, his resolve suddenly lost. The woman called Timber had stalked a wide track around them. Boss Bass was a cowboy, a black cowboy but he knew Indian ways and words it seemed, so he might still be worthwhile, she thought. The trio were lost, stranded in this treacherous terrain.

Cromac had the face of a crow. Smoke curled along his beak and slithered up the hafts of the swords jutting from behind each shoulder. Timber wore a wolf’s skin, her face wreathed by its jaws and her tomahawks tucked away held fast by straps, and belt. Boss Bass started a stocky slave, and went on to be one of America’s greatest Lawmen complete with Cowboy hat and boots.

While all battle hardened, their indecision held them fast.

“Where the hell are we?” grumbled Boss Bass. ” I reckon them lights might have some answers.” It was an unwelcome thought, but sensible.

They began to explore, quickly concluding that there was no water to be found around. Bass and Timber wrenched out a twisted knot of prickly pink plants, after some rigorous chopping, the dry tendrils of the root blazed bright. They all pulled together around the fire, quickly slumping to sleep, impossible thoughts prying their eyes open time after time.


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