The trail was old. At least three days.
It might even be false, it was hard to tell.
He thought of his home, the garden and the lamp post.
Had he made the right decision?
Was adventure not a young mans duty?
He thought of his soft bed, but pushed that aside.
He could find her, he would find her.
He’d made a promise and would keep it until death.
She would be returned, her captors brought to justice.
Rising, knees cracking, he shifted his weapon lower onto his hip.
He pushed on, rightly or wrongly, fate would decide his victory or defeat.
Podcast http://bit.ly/2och5LE Currently debating the Roswell Incident