People there that night
remember the campfires
and the shadows the strangers and their horses
cast in the orange light
as they rode quietly amongst them.
But they cannot remember, at all, the faces of those riders
almost as if the smoke, and the dust,
and orange haze had given them masks.
There's even been disputes about the numbers.
Were there Four? Five? Six?
And which direction did they ride in from?
And where did they go
when they departed?
To the East? To the West?
And why did not one of the people there that night,
normally so bold and inquisitive,
ask these strangers their purpose?
People there that night could not be sure of much, really,
except for one, most definite thing.
One of their own was missing,
and would never be found again.


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