A chill breeze stirs the dust in what passes for Tombstone's streets. A clammy mist rises from the scattered patches of ragweed and grass. The calm of the early morning is broken by a fitful, lonely sound. A piece of cloth, snagged on the broken edge of a tower, is flapping in the wind. Then, the winds gusting, the cloth sails free landing close to the town's stables. There it lies, abandoned, a faded, blue dress.
Two crows circle the tower, then land, their quick, beady eyes alert. They hop of the edge onto a tumble of rags and things forgotten in a corner. A few clothes, a discarded bag, worn-out sandals. One of the birds pecks at something glittering. A necklace with a piece of jade. Nothing edible. Then they are off, cawing their lament while they circle higher and higher until they enter the grey clouds and are ... gone.