The Drover's Wreck

A picked-over caravan half-sunk in the salt flats, the bones of its team still standing in the traces.

A merchant caravan that misjudged the flats lies where it stopped — wheels seized in the salt-crust, canvas gone to rags, the dray-beasts' bones still upright in their harness as if they only paused. Everything of obvious worth was taken long ago, but the salt preserves, and the desperate and the patient still turn over what the first scavengers missed. The Sunbleached Hold's old road runs past it, going nowhere now.