The Man on the Ground

Cal Reynolds shifted his tobacco quid to the other side of his mouth
as he squinted down the dull blue barrel of his Winchester. His jaws
worked methodically, their movement ceasing as he found his bead. He
froze into rigid immobility; then his finger hooked on the trigger.
The crack of the shot sent the echoes rattling among the hills, and
like a louder echo came an answering shot. Reynolds flinched down,
flattening his rangy body against the earth, swearing softly. A gray
flake jumped from one o...