The Runaway
I believe it was late April that year I saw the dust from the riders as I looked up from stacking firewood. An oak had split the week before from a lightning strike in the west pasture. Cleo and Sage heard the horses long before I did, their ears perked up as they stared off into the distance anticipating the arrival. My Winchester was leaning against the fence, so I grabbed it, cocked it and laid it on the top rail for easy access as I waited for whoever was riding up. I don't get many...
Historical