Tay Tay le May rode up slow, his horse heavy with the weight of old scrolls and cracked leather tomes strapped tight to the saddle. He swung down with the ease of a man accustomed to long journeys, his boots crunching against the dry earth. He stopped short of the tree, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene—a grim, quiet monument to a justice long gone wrong.
The gnarled branches stretched wide, dark and rough like an old outlaw’s hands, clutching at the sky. Hanging from them were the remains of men, their flesh turned gray and brittle as if the tree itself had drained their lives away. Tay Tay le May ran a gloved hand across the bark, the resin tacky beneath his fingers.
He pulled a scroll from his saddlebag, unfurling it with care. The wind picked up, rustling the brittle shoe laces from six feet above, as he began to read.
“Beware the grip of the cursed cotton-oak,” he intoned, his voice steady against the rising gust. “It spares none who scorn the bounty of the West. Adapt or perish, it warns, its roots as old as the hills and its shadow long as memory.”
The tree groaned, its branches creaking like an old ship’s rigging. The bodies hanging there turned to clumps of brittle salt, dropping to the ground with soft thuds. The air shifted, carrying with it a strange mix of brine and lavender.
Tay Tay le May rolled the scroll back up and stowed it, turning to his horse. He mounted smoothly, glancing back once more at the tree, now silent and still.
“Even the strongest standin’ for judgment’s gotta bend to the winds someday,” he muttered, tipping his hat to no one in particular. Then, with a nudge to his horse, he rode off, leaving the cursed cotton-oak behind—a reminder that the world keeps turning, whether we change with it or not.