*The Eyes of Rawhide Ridge*

Clay Ransom didn’t speak unless the wind quit blowing. His weather-creased face was a map of every trail, every gunfight, and every betrayal he’d lived through. The plains behind him whispered with the distant lowing of cattle, but his eyes were fixed on the horizon—always watching, always remembering. Folks said he could read a man’s intentions like a trail marker, and that no lie ever crossed his path without getting buried in the dust. With a half-burned roll-your-own cigarette pressed between his teeth and the sun casting long shadows on the frontier, Clay was the kind of man the land remembered long after the rest had faded.