Making Of A Bounty Hunter

That night the darkness swallowed the landscape outside of the windows. Nothing was visible from the comfort of indoors. A cold wind blew as Lance herded his horses into the security of the sturdy barn. He held his arms close to his sides, shivering as he quickly paced back to the front door of his home. He slid the lock across, bolting it shut from the inside. His boots slipped off his tired feet with ease, collapsing in a leathery heap on the floor. A cloud of dust emerged as the high boots hit the floor with a dull thud. Lance made his way to his old, wooden armchair and poured a generous glass of whiskey. As he gulped down the sweet amber beverage, his ears perked up at the sound of someone outside. It was much too late for Amanda to be ambling up to the ranch, that was for sure. So, who could it possibly be?

Lance placed his glass carefully back on the small, rickety table and made his way to the curtains, hanging motionless behind the safety of the closed window. He poked a finger cautiously through the break in the course cotton veil and shifted it sideways. Squinting, as his eyes adjusted to the dark of this moonless evening. There, at the entrance to his stable, he could see two lanterns, bobbing in the distance. His eyes strained as he was finally able to make out the silhouettes of three men. There was no time to waste.