The Coyote's a survivor

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A wail broke his surveillance, familiar and uncanny from the coyote's maw. By all means, it shouldn't be possible. Maybe it wasn't. A vivid dream with a haunting end? Wolves don't wake from the dead, 'specially not wolves like him. “Woah, woah, woah— What's with all the tears, Rev?” His voice was raw, the rumble in his throat accentuated with hours of sleep, perhaps days.

A yawn broke his maw as Tobias allowed himself to stretch, temporarily ignoring the touch of the man glued to his side, “I just had— the strangest dream. I reckon you were in it.” A large paw patted the coyote on the back twice before Tobi let it rest there. “Don't remember fallin' asleep here though. Pretty, but there's a new large river cuttin' through if this 'sposed to be Bronzebrook.” Wide in birth and iced over compared to the shallow stream that contributed to Bronzebrook's name.

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He'd pat the man on the back a few more times, letting Boone get out all the tears with a hum in his throat. “Well, I ain't dead yet, so I'd reckon so.” Some dream it was too. Dottie ain't deserve to be hounded by men like that, but while every demon had its salt, the demons always found a way to bite back. Not that it mattered right now. “If it ain't Bronzebrook then ya think it's populated? I see some sort of shack to hole up down the valley. Maybe they've got a saloon of their own where some proper questions can be asked.” Questions they'd never be able to answer shootin' guesses 'tween the two of 'em.

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