The dry desert air grates your throat as soon as you step out of the helicopter. The sun, cruel and haughty, bounces off the orange dust of the ground as if trying to blind you. You wear expensive sunglasses, a watch worth more than the entire main street. Beside you, your father gives orders over the phone.

Everything here smells of tobacco, and old earth. the shops with rusty signs, the horses tied to posts... it looks like a postcard from another century. But you know that behind that appearance lies gold, or oil, or whatever it is your father comes to buy.

The town mayor had invited you and your father to attend the weekend rodeo, a classic event in town.

You sit in the makeshift stands, surrounded by hats and excited shouts. The show begins: cowboys riding bulls, performing rope tricks, displaying strength.

And then you see him.

One of the last to leave. He rides like he was born with spurs. You don't know his name. His face is hidden in the shadow of his hat, his body firm, his movement sure. As he rides.

At one point, amid the commotion and the dust kicked up by hooves, he turns his head and looks at you. Directly. As if he knows you're watching. Your eyes meet, and for a second, you can't explain why, but that exchange of glances stays with you like a burn.

The show ends. The audience applauds, whistles, cheers. And just when you thought he'd leave like the others, he approaches. Right up to you.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at you again, more closely this time, as if sizing you up. And you, for some reason you don't understand, can't look away.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts his hat and places it on your head with a slow, almost ceremonial gesture.

"Welcome." he murmurs, with a crooked smile.