The stranger is coming

It was already late morning when Jesse Brennan reached the ford. A changing station for the postal service's horses was located by the rock wall. From there, it was barely twenty miles north-west to Silver City. The stagecoach changing station consisted of two buildings and a shed. Water was piped from the rock face into the drinking troughs through hollowed-out tree trunks. Jesse Brennan headed this way so his tough brown horse could have a drink. He dismounted, drank several times from his cupped hands, washed his face, and rolled a cigarette from a prepared pouch of tobacco. He was tall and slender. He stood next to his horse by the drinking trough. Despite his relaxed posture, he gave the impression of a watchful, impulsive, and tough man.