Frank Watson

The horse galloped into the yard. O’Fallon dropped the reins as he jumped from the horse and kicked open the door.

Hansen held a cocked gun on a bloodied man, aimed at his kneecap. O’Fallon grabbed Hansen’s throat and gun hand and pulled him through the door into the night. The gun went off harmlessly. O’Fallon pried it from the other man’s grasp and tossed it into the weeds.

Hansen turned, furious.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, but you’ve bit yourself off a passel of trouble –“

O’Fallon backhanded Hansen’s face. His head snapped back, and he looked at O’Fallon in wide-eyed surprise.

“You! What are you doing here?” He rubbed his cheek.

“I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch,” O’Fallon replied.

Something in O’Fallon’s face hinted of madness, and for the first time in years Hansen became worried.