July morn on the Savannah. 🌵

July 23: National Day of the Cowboy

Song by Miranda Lambert.

If you listen to the winds whenever you ride out on the vast open spaces of Wild Cattle Prairie

You will hear Abilene calling for her cowboy...

"Blaze...Blaze, honey. Remember to be back by 2pm...The Wedding is at 4pm sharp. Don't be late, my darlin'."

July days were the ones she had dreaded most

the months he rode off into the sunset

his six-shooters on his hips

🌵 He walked like dusk itself...slow, deliberate, each step stirring the dust beneath his worn boots. His coat is frayed suede, sun-faded and wind-bitten, but it's not the fabric that draws attention - it’s the arsenal riding his hips.

Not six bullets. Full revolvers holstered in twin belts, slung low like promises he’s ready to break. One on each side, angled like teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

His hat dips just enough to hide the weathered map of his face, but not the smirk...one of grit, of history, of knowing the odds and daring them anyway. Each gun tells a story. One is silver, etched with lightning. Another bears the bite of flame along its barrel.

This cowboy is no outlaw - he’s the law that comes after the town’s given up hope. A myth reloaded. A frontier ghost armed with memory and firepower.

Abilene remembers "The Storm That Carried Him”.

Long before the wind began to howl, the townsfolk spoke his name like a half-remembered curse. Graymark. No first name. No origin. Just a silhouette that stepped from silence whenever the sky split open.

But Abilene knew his real name...Blaze, he had whispered for her ears only.

They said he was born on a night when the lightning refused to blink. That thunder didn’t scare him...it answered him. Six guns rode his hips like twin serpents, coiled and ready, each etched with old vengeance and unwritten laws.

When the storm rolled in that dusk, the town braced. Not against the rain or wind - but against reckoning.

He arrived as the clouds unraveled, his figure carved in charcoal against a bleeding sky. Hat dipped low. Coat dragging dust and defiance. The air smelled of metal and promises overdue.

No words. Just a walk...slow, grave, inevitable.

He came for ~ The sheriff who betrayed his oath.

The banker who stole behind doors.

The preacher who traded grace for power.

Each would hear the click before the flash.

But this wasn’t vengeance. Not really. It was a story that demanded its ending. One where silence wasn’t cowardice...just the calm before truth struck.

And when the final bolt tore heaven open, Graymark stood framed in light, six guns emptied of fury, heart untouched by victory. He turned not toward the sunset, but deeper into the storm.

Because legends don’t find peace.

They just keep walking. 🌵🌵🌵🌵

Poor Abilene was heartbroken.

She put on her wedding dress and stepped into the storm

Not knowing what awaited her.

She still walks upon the Savannah...you can see her at night

Her wedding dress sparkling like fireflies dancing...

Keeping her company as she still waits for her Blaze.

................................................🌵🌵🌵🌵🌵

Mike's prompt.