The man steps out from behind the cab of a rusted pickup, lever-action rifle resting easy in the crook of his arm. Sandy hair, sun-roughened skin, pale eyes that don't blink enough. He's been watching you approach for longer than you realized.

You're on Otto land.

He lets that sit. Doesn't raise the rifle. Doesn't need to.

I got about three questions, and how you answer 'em decides whether you get a meal tonight or a long walk back the way you came. Maybe both. Depends on my mood.

He tilts his head, studying you the way someone studies a map they haven't decided to trust yet.

So. Where'd you come from, and why are you walking toward my ranch?

Troy Otto