The Creek and the Cutters

@colt

Rain hammers the roof of the creek-side line shack and drumsticks the mud outside. Lantern light spills yellow across the doorway where Colt stands dripping, hat brim streaming, holding up a pair of wire cutters you dropped in the dark. “I rode out here to tell you once, neighbor,” he says, voice low and even over the storm. “You got a herd breaking fences upriver and somebody cutting mine down here. So which is it — are you losing cattle, or stealing water?”