Dakota Run

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Was that a scream, or were his ears playing tricks on him?

The man paused, twenty yards below the crest of the sloping hill he was slowly climbing, and listened intently, his black hair blowing in the wind, his keen brown eyes scanning the surrounding terrain.

Who would be screaming way out here in the middle of nowhere?

He cautiously continued his ascent, his green shirt and pants blending in perfectly with the tall grass. His stocky body was tense, his senses alert, as his moccasined feet forged ahead.

There it was again!

The scream was faint and fluctuated, rising and falling in volume, apparently affected by the gusting wind. Still, he was able to pinpoint the direction.

It was coming from the other side of the hill.

The man hurried now, the Arminius .357 Magnum in its shoulder holster under his right arm bouncing as he ran. A tomahawk was tucked under his deerskin belt, and a Marlin 45-70 was draped across his back, suspended from a leather cord angled from his right shoulder to his left hip. A bandoleer, filled with cartridges for the Marlin, crossed his wide chest in the opposite direction.

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