The Rally Point

The old bark was rough, easing his ascent. His dull coat and breeches blended with the colors of the leaves, but the gusting wind left him wishing for a cloak. Sticky sap clung to his hands, adding sweetness to his unwashed odor. The only tree for leagues, he crept as high as the thin upper branches allowed. Scanning the horizon, the autumnal landscape held only sparse farmhouses and fallow, harvested fields. He was close enough to the rally point to see others arriving. Turning the revolver over in his hands, he sat and leaned back against the trunk to wait.