Saxton jammed the butt of his rifle into his shoulder and aimed it at the flash of movement. He kept the front sight trained on a slim form as it moved down the steep slope of a hill his pa, long dead from typhoid, had nicknamed Baldy Knob. His higher position on an unnamed ridge across a deep ravine gave him the perfect vantage point over his target.

Sweat trickled off his forehead and dripped onto the walnut gunstock as an oppressive sun sweltered the entire area around Crescent Gap, maybe even all of Appalachia. He kept the man in his sights as he waded across the small creek that snaked along the ravine; far longer than necessary to determine his closest neighbor had encroached upon his lands, again.

Jessum hunted with little care, the heat diminishing his hope of success. Saxton lowered his rifle and slung it onto his shoulder. His gun sling, a ragged leather strap, dug into the same groove of sore muscles as if he’d never removed the nine-pound rifle. He shifted the gun to a more comfortable position, but every conceivable way he placed the rifle brought dull, deep in the muscle pain.

Saxton slipped between the evergreens and snuck through brambles, undergrowth, and thickets as he followed Jessum, who continued his feigned pursuit of game, unaware of his follower. As his neighbor encroached deeper into Saxton’s ancestral lands, another quick flush of anger coursed through him and he fought the urge to holler at Jessum—shame him, if that was possible.

…

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