It started with the rumors.
Odd stories from wobblin’ jaws telling tales over drinks at the saloon. Folk bivouacked in Clackspur Pass waking up to find white fur stuck to the leftover bean cans ’round their campsite. Old lady Murton’s missing cat.
The townfolk waved it off it as yarn-spinnin’ and taradiddles for as long as they could, but the stories started piling up. Finally, came a time when there just weren’t no other conclusion a reasonable mind could draw.
There was a yeti in the Mesa Rodéo mountains.
The sheriff rounded up a posse, and you were quick to volunteer. Can’t have yeti-folk tearin’ about, scaring the livestock. Liable to sour the milk.
You and the posse saddle up your horses and ride out on the western trail into the foothills. You rig up a basecamp just below the tree line and set to palaverin’ about your next move.
