The sun is brutally hot without a hint of a breeze to break the heat rising from the baked earth. The riders ride single file, both man and beast constantly watching for danger. The only sounds to be heard are the occasional hoof hitting a rock and the creak of saddle leather as the riders weight shifts forward from climbing up the ridge. This is dangerous country. Everybody in the party but especially the lead rider is constantly on the alert for the slightest sign that something might not be right. A broken branch on a rabbit bush, a rock laying wrong on the trail, a ravens alarm call plus a 6th sense that something’s not right, any or all of these things could spell disaster for the troop if not observed and taken into account. These are old hands in this country and not likely to be caught unaware. This isn’t the first ridge they’ve ridden and if they’re careful it won’t be their last.