Chapter 2

The next morning, as the sun rose over the red rocks, Donald was summoned to the marshal’s office. The donkey was there, looking remarkably well-groomed and well-fed. “I’ve had a talk with Dork,” the marshal said, his voice serious. “And I think he’s ready to prove his worth.”

The marshal’s eyes twinkled, and Donald couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with the beast. “He’s yours now, No Horse. Take good care of him. Maybe between the two of you, you can turn this place around.”

With that, Donald became the unwitting custodian of Dork. The donkey followed him everywhere, his braying now a constant companion to the old man’s shuffling steps. The soldiers rolled their eyes at first, but soon they grew to tolerate the odd pair. And as the days turned to weeks, something strange began to happen.

Dork started to change. He grew quieter, more obedient. He’d help Donald with the heavier chores, his stubbornness giving way to a surprising loyalty. The soldiers began to take notice, and the whispers grew louder. Some said the marshal had worked some kind of magic, others that Donald had a way with animals that none had seen before.

But Donald knew the truth. It was the simple act of caring that had turned Dork into something more than just a nuisance. He had given the creature a purpose, a reason to be something other than the butt of their jokes. And in doing so, he had found a piece of himself that he had lost in the dusty streets of Dreadworth.

The bond between Donald and Dork grew stronger with each passing day, a bond forged from the crucible of hard work and shared solitude. They became a team, the old man and his donkey, a symbol of hope in the face of adversity.

And as the sun set on another long day at Fort Killhills, Donald sat on the porch of the kitchen, his hand resting on Dork’s neck. He looked out over the desert, the wind whispering secrets in his ear. He knew that the road ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but with a full belly and a newfound purpose, he was ready to face whatever the Wild West had in store for him.

One evening, as he served stew in the bustling mess hall, the air thick with the smell of sweat and gunpowder, he heard the soldiers talking in hushed tones. They spoke of a new order from Governor Yoram Izqan, a man known for his ruthlessness and his hatred of the native inhabitants of the land. The order was simple but chilling: the fort’s garrison was to ride out and massacre the Annawan tribe, whose lands the fort had encroached upon.

Their words were like a slap in the face, sending a shiver down Donald’s spine. He had seen enough bloodshed in his life to know that violence was a beast that once unleashed, was hard to contain. And here he was, smack in the middle of a horror that was about to unfold. He knew he couldn’t just stand by and let it happen. But what could an old man with no horse, no gun, and no voice do against an army of hardened soldiers?

He retreated to the kitchen, the clank of pots and pans a cacophony in his ears. The words of the soldiers echoed in his mind, each syllable a hammer blow to his conscience. He had to warn the Annawans, had to give them a chance to flee before the soldiers came. But how? He was just a cook’s helper, a man with no power and no influence. And yet, as he looked into the embers of the dying fire, he knew he couldn’t just let it happen. He had to find a way.

As the fort settled into the quiet of the night, Donald made his decision. He whispered into Dork’s ear, the donkey’s eyes widening in understanding. They would leave that very night, under the cover of darkness, and ride as fast as they could to the Annawan camp. It was a desperate gamble, one that could cost them both their lives. But Donald had faced the abyss before, and he knew that sometimes the only way to find redemption was to stare it down.

The journey was treacherous, the desert a labyrinth of shadows and whispering winds. Dork, for all his newfound obedience, was still a stubborn creature, and the path was fraught with challenges that tested their bond. But Donald’s resolve was unshakable. He had been given a second chance, and he wasn’t going to waste it standing idly by while innocents were slaughtered.

The Annawan camp was a beacon of light in the darkness, the flickering flames of their fires a stark contrast to the cold, unfeeling fort they had left behind. As they approached, Donald could hear the laughter of children, the gentle lullabies of mothers, the low murmur of men sharing stories. It was a world apart from the harsh reality of Fort Killhills, and the thought of it being wiped out was almost too much to bear.

He stepped into the camp, Dork at his side, his heart pounding in his chest. The Indians looked at him with suspicion, their eyes sharp and wary. But Donald had lived a hard life, and he knew how to read people. He saw the fear in their eyes, the same fear he had felt so many times in Dreadworth. And he knew that he had to do something to ease it.

With trembling hands, he spoke the words that could either save them or seal their doom. “I bring warning,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “The soldiers of Fort Killhills have been ordered to attack your camp. You must leave. Now.”

The camp erupted into chaos, the cries of the women and children piercing the night. The men grabbed their weapons, their faces a mask of anger and disbelief. But Donald pressed on, telling them everything he knew, painting a picture of the horror that awaited them if they didn’t heed his warning.

The chief, a man named Waquini, listened intently, his eyes never leaving Donald’s. When the old man had finished speaking, he nodded solemnly. “We have known of the white man’s treachery,” he said. “But we had hoped for better from those who live with us in peace.”