The year is 1849.

Dust drifted across the hardpan, thin veils of ochre shifting and settling with every wandering gust. The land stretched out in long, desolate reaches, broken only by stands of chaparral and the stunted silhouettes of mesquite trees clawing at the blank horizon. Hills slouched in the distance like tired sentinels, their shapes blurred by the haze of heat. The earth underfoot was a patchwork of cracked clay and trampled tracks left by past horses, wagons, or animals that had passed long before. A silence lived here, broken by the lone call of a coyote or an overhead bird.

Nearby, a river cut through the wasteland, its water low and running slowly, glinting dully beneath the streams of golden sunlight. Old branches leaned over it, their dried leaves whispering in the faint stir of wind, scattering flashes of pale green against the muted-colored soil. The wilderness felt vast and indifferent out here.