Leaving Lonesome Draw

The sun hung low over Lonesome Draw, a ragged slash of earth in eastern Nevada where the wind carried whispers of forgotten ranches and the ghosts of men who’d bet their lives on the next horizon. Cal Ritter reined up his dusty Chevy pickup on the ridge, the engine ticking to silence as he squinted across the sage-dotted flats.

He’d come here to be alone, to carve out a sanctuary from a world that’d grown too loud, too crowded with voices he didn’t trust. A private life, he’d figured, was the only one worth living anymore. But out here, where the cell signal died, and the nearest town was a two-hour haul over washboard roads, he was learning a hard truth: it wasn’t the enemies he’d left behind that gnawed at him—it was the ones he couldn’t see.

Cal was no stranger to trouble. He’d punched cattle on spreads from Texas to Montana, ridden out blizzards and rustlers alike, but the years had piled up like stones on a grave. Now, at forty-two, with a limp from a bronc that’d turned mean and a reputation for keeping his own counsel, he’d cashed out his last paycheck and bought this scrap of nowhere—a double-wide trailer, a windmill that creaked more than it pumped, and a hundred acres of nothing but yucca and sky.

The West had changed, sure–drones buzzed over the big outfits now, and the highways hummed with semis hauling beef to cities he’d never cared to visit. But out here, a man could still live lean, still hear the old songs in the coyote’s howl. Or so he’d thought.

The first sign of trouble came with the dust trail. Cal spotted it from the porch late Tuesday, a thin plume rising against the bruise-colored dusk.

He set down his coffee, cold anyway, and eased the .45 Colt from its holster on the table. Visitors didn’t come to Lonesome Draw—not without a reason, and reasons out here usually meant a debt, a grudge, or a gun.

He’d made enemies in his time: a foreman he’d called out for skimming pay, a cardsharp in El Paso who hadn’t liked losing. But he’d covered his tracks, paid cash for the land, and kept his name off the grid.

The isolation was his shield. Or it had been.

The truck rolled up, a dented Ford with Texas plates, and out stepped a wiry man Cal didn’t know—lean as a fencepost, with eyes like chipped flint.

“Ritter?” the stranger called, voice cutting through the stillness. “Got a message for you.”

Cal kept the Colt low, thumb resting easy on the hammer. “I ain’t expectin’ mail. Say your piece and ride on.”

The man grinned, a slash of teeth that didn’t reach those cold eyes. “Ain’t from me. Fella named Hargrove sends his regards. Says you owe him a herd—twenty head you drove off his spread up near Raton.”

Cal’s gut tightened.

Hargrove. A cattleman he’d worked for three years back, a hard case who’d shorted wages and branded strays that weren’t his.

Cal hadn’t stolen a damn thing—just walked away when the tally didn’t add up. “Hargrove’s a liar,” he said, steady as stone. “I don’t owe him spit.”

The stranger shrugged like it didn’t matter. “He figures different. Sent me to collect—or make sure you don’t talk.”

His hand twitched toward his belt, and Cal saw the glint of a pistol grip under the frayed denim jacket. Instinct took over, honed by years of dodging trouble in saloons and stockyards.

Cal snapped the Colt up, the crack of the shot splitting the evening air. The stranger staggered, clutching his shoulder, and bolted for the truck. Tires spun gravel as he tore off, leaving a curse in the dust.

Cal stood there, heart thumping, the acrid tang of gunpowder stinging his nose. He’d bought this place to be alone, to dodge the bullets—literal and otherwise—that came with crossing men like Hargrove.

But solitude, he saw now, wasn’t the sanctuary he’d dreamed. It was a trap.

Out here, no one heard the shot, no one came running. And Hargrove wouldn’t stop—not with a score to settle.

The days turned restless. Cal rigged tripwires with tin cans around the trailer, slept with the Colt under his pillow, and kept the Winchester loaded by the door.

He scanned the horizon through cracked binoculars, knowing the stranger would be back, likely with some company. The land–vast and indifferent, offered no cover, no allies—just the endless chance to get hunted. He’d wanted freedom, but freedom out here meant standing alone against whatever came riding down that dirt track.

Friday night. Under a moon thin as a blade, a second dust cloud rose. This time, two trucks, headlights off, creeping slowly.

Cal slipped out the back, belly-crawling through the scrub to a dry wash he’d scouted days before. He’d been a fool to think the past wouldn’t follow; the West didn’t forgive a man his history. But he’d be damned if he’d go down without a fight.

The men fanned out—three shadows with rifles, Hargrove’s brand of roughnecks. Cal waited, breath shallow, till they were close.

Then he rose, Winchester barking, a storm of lead that dropped one and sent the others scrambling. Shots answered, splintering the trailer’s walls, but Cal was already moving, a ghost in the dark. He circled wide, took the second man with a slug to the chest, and faced the last—Hargrove himself, gray-haired and snarling, a .44 in his fist.

“You should’ve paid up, Ritter,” Hargrove spat, raising the gun.

Cal fired first. Hargrove crumpled, a final debt settled in blood.

Silence fell, heavy as the night. He stood over the bodies–the weight of it sinking in. He’d wanted a private life, a sanctuary, but the West had taught him its bitter lesson–it wasn’t the enemies you knew that broke you—it was the ones you thought you’d left behind.

Dawn found Cal saddling up—not a horse, but the Chevy, packed with what little he owned. Lonesome Draw wasn’t his anymore; it was a graveyard now, a reminder that solitude didn’t shield a man—it just made him a target.

Somewhere out there was another stretch of nowhere, another chance to outrun the shadows. He’d keep moving, a lone rider in the modern West–that still demanded its pound of flesh.