Going After the Rustlers

Johnny’s hands clenched into tight fists around the horse’s reins. He fought not to let the tears in his eyes drop, turning his face down so the old man in the saddle wouldn’t see. “You can’t go after them, grampa. This isn’t like the old days. They’ve got guns and you’re all alone.”

“You don’t understand, Johnny,” Bill said, tucking the old Winchester into the tattered leather holster under the saddle. “I spent my whole life raising those cows. Besides, you don’t think I want to die in a home, do you?”

Johnny stopped fighting back the tears as he let go of the reins.

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