The fields were still wet from the morning's dew, and the horses were just beginning to graze as the sun lifted up from the far hill in the east. The silhouette of a man appeared into Steven O'Mara's view, and he tensed, brushing his auburn hair from his freckled face before standing up to meet the stranger.
As he drew closer, he noticed the man had a knife in his hand. Steven reached for his, concealed at his belt. Apparently, the man didn't see him, because he began cutting the ropes of horse after horse from the stables. Steven charged forward.
"Hey, there!" he yelled as the man jerked his head in Steven's direction. "What do you think you're doing? Get out of here!"
The horses neighed and feigned at the commotion, but the two men stood still, opposing one another.
"I said, get off of this land, and out of my sight before you regret it."
"Do you have any idea who I am?" the man asked, patting the palm of his hand to his chest.
By then, Steven could see the whites of his eyes. The smirk on the man's face was almost nauseating. "I have no idea who the hell you are," he growled back. "And I really couldn't care less."
"If you did," the man grinned. "Then you would regret talking to me in such a manner."
"I doubt it," Steven scoffed. "But if you don't leave this instant you'll wish you'd never stepped foot on this property."
The man looked away from Steven, and down at the knife in his hands. "And I'm sure you own this place."
Steven looked down at his tattered blue-gray shirt and mud-stained jeans. When he looked back up, he was glaring. "It doesn't matter," he claimed, taking a few steps forward. "I'm in charge of this land at the present moment, and what I say goes. So go!"
To Steven's surprise, the man had the audacity to laugh. "How old are you?" he asked once he had recovered. "Fifteen?"
"Not that it's any of your concern, but I'm twenty-two," Steven answered. "Now, leave!"
In a quick motion, the man had approached Steven, swatted the knife from his hand, and then pressed his own blade to Steven's throat. "Let me leave with three of your horses, or you'll never live to see the light of another day," he hissed in Steven's face. "So, what'll it be?"
Steven reached up and wrapped his fingers tightly around his harasser's wrists. "I vowed to protect these horses and this land, and that's exactly what I'll do." Without another word, he took a chance, and kicked the man exactly where it hurt. As the man bent over in pain, Steven threw him into the side of the barn and took the knife. Now, he was in control.
"Listen, sir, I don't have a clue who you are or why you need three horses so badly, but to be completely honest with you, I really don't care. Just get out of this land and be on your way before I have to do anything that I'll later regret."
Then man actually smiled, but put his hands up in the air as a sign of giving in.
Steven took a few steps away, not turning his back on the man once.
"Give me my knife," the man demanded, but Steven shook his head.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" he asked. "I said, get out of here!"
The man began to walk away, and when he was far enough where Steven felt safe again, he bent over to pick up his own knife. He held the two of them together, comparing them. Unlike his knife, the stranger's looked immaculate, like it had never been used before. It also had an intricate knotted pattern etched into the metal and another swirl pattern in its perfect wooden handle. With care, he turned it over, accidentally dropping his own knife in the process. He didn't pay it any attention as it lay buried in the grass. Instead, he turned around and went back to the barn as he stared at the opposite side of the blade. Carved into the metal were the Initials T. E.
He wondered if T. E. was the person who'd attacked him just moments ago.
"Bet you didn't think I'd come back," a voice from behind him growled.
Steven whirled around to face the same man, and was so startled by the gun in his face, that he dropped the knife to the ground.
"Give me those horses, or else you're dead."
Without thinking, Steven grabbed the barrel of the gun and twisted, desperate to get it away from himself. There was a loud noise, and when Steven opened his eyes, he saw blood on the haystack opposite from himself. Startled, he sucked in his breath, stumbling a few steps backwards. He bumped into the barn wall, and that's when his gaze fell to the heap on the floor. It was the stranger lying there in a puddle of blood... and he wasn't moving.
Steven caught his breath, but instead of feeling better, he felt worse.
He had killed a man.
Steven crept away from the body and around the corner of the barn where he thought he might be able to think better, but his thoughts were running so quickly through his mind that he could barely catch any of them.
What if someone heard the gunshot? What if they came, and didn't believe his story? Who was that guy and would anyone miss him?
He decided to stop thinking and just do what his body told him to do; run! But before he could, he walked back and gazed down at the body. Determined to uncover the man's identity, he picked up the deadman's knife and put it where his knife had once been. Without even going back to pack his few things, he walked off into the woods and didn't look back.
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