Hunter Malone

It was pure blind luck that he found the gold. He had heard about the silver strikes in the territory of Nevada, and he had decided to head over there and try his luck. He had drifted through the Territory of New Mexico, cut through a part of what would soon be the Territory of Arizona, and was headed into Nevada by crossing the Mojave Desert. It was hot as hell, and he rode slowly to conserve his horse’s strength, although he rode a grulla mustang that was born to the desert. But he had a long ride ahead of him, and one never knew when a sudden burst of speed would be needed. He had brought sufficient water with him, but he wasn’t really worried even if he ran short because he had been here before and knew where to find water if needed. He was a man at peace with the desert. His name was Hank Malone, but they called him Hunter Malone because of his skill in tracking and hunting—both animals and men. He stood 6 feet 4 inches in his socks, and he was broad-shouldered and muscular. He had a broad, clean-shaven face, which now showed a good amount of stubble, and gray-green eyes that would turn a cold green when he was angry. He was deeply tanned by his life outdoors, and even his blond hair was whitened from long exposure to the sun and the elements.
He was riding to go around a mesa to get into the shade it offered so that he and his horse could rest for some time when suddenly the sun glinted off something high up the mesa. Immediately, Hunter went off his horse on the side away from the mesa. With his horse as a shield, he scanned the area of the mesa from where the flash of light had come. He had instantly assumed that the flash was the sunlight striking a rifle barrel, but as he now scanned the area, he could see nothing. He knew that that didn’t really mean much, because if an Apache didn’t want to be seen, then you just wouldn’t see him. After waiting for some time, he carefully urged his horse backwards and walked alongside so that he was still shielded from the mesa. Again, there was a brief flash of light, and Hunter stopped and stared at the spot. He slowly moved forwards and backwards and was rewarded by another flash, and this time he stopped dead in his tracks, and the flash of light held. He contemplated the situation and finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a gun barrel—or at least that it wasn’t a gun barrel held by an Apache; it was too steady for that and had to be something immovable. Now, that thought led Hunter to contemplate further—was it the sun striking off some shale or quartz…or maybe silver?
Deciding to investigate, he mounted and slowly rode his horse around the mesa, looking for a way to the top. But as far as he could see, there was no place that a man could even try climbing up. It was on his second circuit of the mesa that he spotted the entrance, which at first glance did not seem to be more than a cleft in the wall. Hunter rode forward, and as he neared the wall, he saw that the cleft was actually an opening into the mesa and was wide enough and high enough for a horse and rider to pass through. So he passed through and found himself in a vast cave.