Life in the old West moves at a slower pace, steady as the sun crossing the sky.

Mornings begin early, with the cool air carrying the faint smell of earth and woodsmoke. The cattle stir in the pasture, their low voices blending with the creak of leather as saddles are tightened.

Herding isn’t hurried work. It’s patient, quiet, guiding animals across open land where the horizon seems to stretch forever. The rhythm of hooves, the whistle of the rider, the distant call of a hawk. These become part of the day’s music.

Jackson was used to this kind of life, in fact, it was better than he could ask for. The pay was just right, perfect for a lone man like him. There was no maiden or child to take care for.

Every day was just him, and the strumming of his guitar. There was no better place to be, just sitting on his porch, playing some blues as the sun set.