Rain threatened. The heavy, humid atmosphere seemed to unsettle the longhorns. Just as the men had finished for the day, a particularly wild steer broke through the fence taking most of the day’s gather with him. By the time they had located the herd and put a bullet through the head of the instigator, it was too late to go back to the ranch. They had skinned the steer, cooked as much of the meat as they could eat, and wandered off to sleep, dead tired. They wanted to get as much rest as they could before they got wet. Something woke George. It might have been the wind moaning through the trees. Or a splintering limb. It was too dark to see. Storm clouds obscured the moon. The only light came from the dying embers of the fire. One of the dogs was awake, his head pointed downwind. He growled low in his throat. He looked toward Monty, whined uneasily, then looked back into the night. He growled again. George didn’t know how he knew they were about to be attacked. He just did. Reaching for his gun, he fired into the blackness.
