This is part of my book, The Wanderer. It isn't really in chapters yet, but I'll just insert some of the first part. Let me know what you think. Click about at the top of this page, my email address is listed there. Keep in mind, this is a very rough draft. Tenses are all over the place, as is spelling and grammar...

It was raining out, a miserable night. One of those hard rains that soak through every layer you have within minutes. Add thunder and lightning to that, and it was not a night to be outside, never mind ride in. But it was slightly more hospitable outside than the room he currently was sitting in. This was one of his regular stops, but that didn’t mean people got any more used to him.
He understood why. His clothing and demeanor said stay away. This was not a mistake. The muddy old leather boots were cracked and starting to get holes. Not much left of their former glory as a cavalry officer’s shiny black boot. The secondhand wool pants kept him warm, as did the patchwork jacket. It was his favorite jacket, but to anyone else, it was nothing to look at. It was made of rough canvas on the outside and wool inside. It had leather patches on the elbows where he had worn through both thick layers over the years.
He had mud all over him from riding on Scout all day, through the rain. Once the sun started to set, he decided one night out of the cold would be good for Scout. The horse was looking tired. So he came to the Black Iron. The barkeep liked him because he always paid his tab and was no trouble. He just sat in the back corner where it was darkest.
“The usual tonight, oh weary traveler? You have come far to mine fine establishment.”
The barkeep had a sense of humor that seemed to amuse himself but no one else.
“Yea Trav. Steak sounds good tonight. Scout is out in the stable. Can you take care of him?”
“Oh sure. Steaks all around. Hey good to see you again wanderer.”
Travis went off to get steak for the wanderer, and hot mash for his horse.
The wanderer had a name. Most people do. But he didn’t like to use it, being in the business that he was in. So he let people call him whatever they wished. Some names were better than others. Wanderer was one of the ones he liked better.
Travis was like most barkeeps, as in he liked to talk. He liked to listen and liked to talk. After only showing up a few times, the wanderer soon learned his life story. Travis’ great grandfather found this place and decided to settle here. The road out front was just starting to become important, and great grand Travis knew that. There was good water nearby, and a small hill to put a tavern on. Generations later, Travis Edwards IV is tending bar and doing what his family seems to always have done. The original Travis’ father was a blacksmith, hence the name Black Iron.
Now some of the larger gentlemen were getting more beer in them, and becoming more rowdy. They started looking at the muddy stranger with interest, like maybe he would be fun to throw around for awhile. Travis soon brought the steak, and the wanderer took it up to his room. He didn’t feel like getting into a fight tonight. He had been through enough lately.
He ate his steak slowly, letting his body sink down into the hard wooden chair in his room. He liked Travis’ place. You got a bed with new hay, a desk, a chair, and a candle on it. Travis even made sure there were matches. The Black Iron was a first class place.
Once the steak, carrots, and potatoes were gone he went downstairs and out the back door to see Scout. The horse was warm in the barn with a blanket over him, and happily munching on whatever Travis put in a bag for him. Scout seemed to enjoy this place as well. Travis always took care of him.
“Well old man, you deserved a good rest. Two weeks in rain and mud. I haven’t seen it this bad since we got here. And you remember how that was.”
The horse looked at him but kept on munching
“Alright, I’ll leave you be. Tomorrow we ride back to camp.”
The wanderer clomped back into the tavern and up to his room. He closed the door and finally fully relaxed. He set his pack on the floor next to his bed and stretched his weary back. He took off his boots and set them outside the door for the stable boy to clean in the morning. He hung his coat on the door hanger and locked the door.
The wanderer and Scout had covered eighty or maybe was it a hundred miles in the past two weeks. It took him a week to find them, but find them he did. He spent the last six days tracking the big army down, figuring out where it was headed and why. This wasn’t a very hard task for him, as he had been doing it for twelve years. Armies change. The terrain changes. The officers who give him his orders change. But the wanderer has always been a scout, and deep down that will never change. You just have to follow the signs and find the big dumb crowd of people. Then you just have to watch them long enough to find out where they might be going.
This army was starting to act a bit different, though. He thought he had them figured out. They had been in the eastern woodlands for a year now, and he had tracked their trip down from the north, and all of their movements since then. But lately they seemed to be a bit faster, a bit more sure of themselves. He was not sure what it meant, but he did not have time to find out. He had been gone for two weeks, and his superiors would be getting itchy to hear something from him. A long time ago, in the old days, he could go off for months without anyone worrying. Now it seems they want him on a much shorter leash.
Well, the army is moving alright. Moving eastward in a hurry. He thought he might hear something from the locals, but they are getting harder to talk to as time goes on. There is much to think about, but not tonight. He lays down in bed and throws something at the candle to put it out.