The sun roams the sky, trailing sunbeams staining the hills in crimson and pink. A tilted sombrero shields a resting gaucho’s face, head resting on prone horse. Grey poncho idly ripples in the breeze, red dust scattered on fabric. The gaucho’s bones gleam in the sunlight.
Rising to its feet the skeletal rider awakens the horse, devoid of flesh. Standing in the hot sun the gaucho gently rubs the horses skull before mounting and riding off, trotting into crimson contours.
The sand flats separate the village from the hills. Unpopulated aside from cacti and sage bushes it’s somewhere the villagers rarely go. It’s not impassable but there is little the people need from it.
On some nights the gaucho will come down from the hills and roam the flats. The nature of the highlands gives the wraith little chance to ride freely. Under starry skies the reins crack and the horse bolts screaming past cacti, gossamer cloud trailing in its wake.
Leaping over sage bushes, poncho flapping wildly, dust and air flow through skeletal bodies. The sun pokes past hill ridges and the gaucho trots back to the mesa, affectionately patting the horse.
Chalk white hills littered with horse tracks, disfigured by the wind flowing over the land. The tracks lead from the base of the hills up to the mesa before winding down into contours and crevasses.
Under the pale sky the gaucho and compadre wander the land mass. They are not looking for anything, or anyone.
Trees line the base of the hills, ashen hands outstretched rustle the leaves. The hill sides are sparse, sage bushes nuzzled by the sallow horse. Skeletal reverberations rise from indented paths, pallid hands run along crimson sediments, phantasm grooves left behind. Spectral hooves draw patterns in red sand.
The sun dips. Gaucho and horse amble deeper into the highlands, fading into gossamery clouds.