Boone's Saloon Tales

As the afternoon stretched on, Barnaby noticed a movement in the tall grass near the tracks. It wasn’t a wolf or a deer. It was a small, tawny head popping out of a mound of dirt. Then another. Then a dozen. These were prairie dogs which were a common sight in the prairies but to a golden retriever from the city, these were the strangest squirrels he had ever seen. They didn’t climb trees; they lived in the earth itself.

The rhythmic clack-clack, clack-clack of the Iron Horse had become the heartbeat of our journey. Inside the wooden car, the air was thick with the scent of cedar oil and Clara’s sourdough. Barnaby had finally settled his heavy golden head on a pile of wool blankets, his tail giving an occasional, sleepy thump. That was when the grain sack started to move.

The year is 1903. The air in the East has grown heavy with soot and the noise of too many people. But out here? Out here, the wind smells like dried grass and endless possibility. My name is Boone. Or, more accurately, I am the keeper of Boone’s legacy. These are the tales passed down through generations of paws and tail-wags, starting with the Great Journey of my ancestor, Barnaby.