ThirtyPulling his horse up sharply, Simms gazed across his land towards the lone ranch house and knew something was wrong. He could not see the string of horses, which he had accumulated with such care and patience, corralled in the far field, as they usually were. He reached behind him and pulled out the German field glasses from their cracked leather case and focused in on the ranch. Slowly he surveyed the vista, sweeping from left to right and back again. Nothing stirred.
He stopped, senses alert and quickly swung the glasses back over to the right. A thin cloud of dark grey dust moving across the horizon, the distant mountains forming a perfect backdrop, bringing the smudge into sharp focus. Riders.
Another look back to the house. The door hung open. The well, in the front yard, the
