Stupid horse.

Stupid weather.

Stupid country.

Diego's day had started poorly (he was now down to one good pair of socks and they hadn't dried properly overnight), had quickly gotten worse (it was cold, mice had gotten into his breakfast), and now it had managed to get even worse.

English horses were fucking useless.

His backside and normal-side were caked with mud from where the damn nervous nag had thrown him, and God only knew where the gelding had run off to after.  At least useless English saddles (and his own 'innocent man' act) meant he'd only lost the horse and saddle, no guns, no bedroll, nothing that really mattered much.  The worst thing was that he was left to trudge across the moor in the direction he'd come from, a pleasant day in the saddle turned into a depressing slog.

The only saving grace was the sight of a cart in the distance.  Hurrying forward he lifted an arm and shouted to hopefully gain the driver's attention before they left him once again alone (and wet, and muddy).  "Ay, sir!  Excuse me!  Are you heading back to town?"