Granddad slung his game leg around the cantle, sitting sideways on his horse. He glanced over at his grandson, riding on his own pony. The boy’s eyes were as big as the full moon at harvest. They had stopped to rest, and drink from their canteens.
“For real, Granddad? People walked through them folded hills?”
“Really, Son. We had a guide who’d been through before. We loaded up on water and jerky .”
“Wow! I guess you was real brave!”
“Nope. We just knew the Indians was superstitious about them white hills, and wouldn’t foller us through ’em.”