A road weary-man walking along a young, exhausted gray and white spotted Appaloosa stallion slowly ambled over one of the last hills before entering Little Well. Patting his horse "Ferris" with one hand, Doctor F. C. Peters turned a tattered map over and around in his hand in attempt to get some bearings.

His journey westward and into a new life had been a brash choice; a choice he deeply regretted up to this point (and such feelings which were unlikely to change any time soon). With the sun overhead it was difficult to tell if the road had turned away from west, if the time of year had changed, or if he had moved so far south in his wanderings that he could no longer count on the sun being where it had been. Does that even happen? That's the sort of thing that a cattle herder would know, I suppose. I am doing well enough just knowing that the sun sets in the west. Small signs of civilization peaked over the tops of the hills surrounding Little Well, and with a sigh of relief Doctor Peters said "Oh, thank God."