The Golden Hunters

       During my nap this afternoon, I do like being off of work, I re-dreamed one of my dreams from this morning. Or, at least in my head I understood it to be a repeat, at least in the theme of the dream. I was in a store, an old fashioned general store, and I was picking up some clothing to wear with my kilt. I ended up with a pair of chaps, knee high boots and several western style work shirts and matching pairs of socks, two pair for each shirt. I also bought a couple of brown and camel colored Utilikilts. I dressed and checked myself out in the mirror of the back room of the general store. It was me, but what an odd combination of clothing. I stepped outside, took a pair of pistol belts out of my saddle bags and strapped them on. I then mounted up and rode off on a huge dust colored horse with a dark mane and tail.
       Just outside of the town I was joined by a large golden mountain lion, and we slipped into the forest, tracking something. (Not someone, I'm sure I would have knows if it was a someone rather than a something.) The horse was sure footed, and seemed to keep pace easily and quietly with the lion.
       The dream shifted to a written page, maroon text, almost black, on a parchment colored background. I hit the scroll wheel to go to the top of the chapter. It read something like this.
       "The Golden Hunters"
       Racewind and Mountain Dawn followed the beast's trail. The trail was plain as though the beast had painted the fallen leaves of autumn red with its own blood. Racewind carried the man they called Buffalo Chip, only recently bound to their cause. If not for the company of Mountain Dawn, Racewind would have abandoned the hunt long ago, the blood he smelled was brewed too much of the blood of his kin.
       The buffalo who'd brought them together, hunter and prey, had brought them also the man. The man carried the barking death on his hips, but secretly neither thought it would do any good against the beast.
       Mountain Dawn thought the man knew that as well, carried them for what little comfort they would provide, a link back to the oil, iron and fire of his own world.
       Mountain Dawn fully expected to die in the coming conflict, the blood colored leaves smelled too much of his own kind, too much of larger, faster, better fed. Mountain Dawn was many years from holding his own territory. He was now old, and unlike in the first few contests he lost, he knew it, knew it in his bones, his tendons and in his teeth and claws, and though wiser than the strong young lions who ruled from the high rocks, he knew he would not be winning any more contests, there would be no more mates. It was his time.
       "I think this snark may be a boojum, boys." The horse shuddered beneath him and the lion growled. The man could not smell the blood in the color of the leaves, but followed the trail with a skill that he had no reason to possess, but had since childhood. He could find things, find things and bring them to light. It was keeping things that he seemed to have no talent for.
       Until the Buffalo had come to him, standing serene on his third floor balcony, eating his potted ferns, he had every reason to think his talent was a natural use of his normal observational abilities. Finding the horse and the lion right where his 'hallucination' had left them?
       Well, that started him down a whole new road. And, for the second time in his life, he let go of everything save for what he carried on his back or in his pockets. Trouble keeping things seemed to be a condition of being able to find anything.
       There was more, much more, but the trail had come to a fork, and the beast had crossed a road then become lost in a stream. The lion and I stepped out in a double spiral away from the horse, hoping to find the trail along the road, the stream or in the forest.