Hold the Gate

@colt

The wind hits first — a wall of cold air that smells of rain and crushed grass, whipping the corral dust into your face. Somewhere past the bunkhouse, cattle bawl in a rising panic, and hoofbeats roll like thunder that's come down to earth. Colt is already on the fence line, hat gone, rope in one fist, shouting over the din. "You — greenhorn!"