I could hear them yelling, their voices thick with malice, and I could feel the cold grip of fear settle in my chest.

I pulled the reins tighter, trying to calm the horse, but it was useless. The rustlers were too close, their shadows looming larger with each passing second.

Then, out of nowhere, a gunshot rang out, followed by a sharp, "Get down!"

I ducked instinctively, barely able to register the sound before a figure appeared from the side—Whitey. His eyes were hard, his expression a mask of determination as he shot the first bandit off his horse with cold precision. Another shot rang out, and a second rider hit the ground, groaning.

"Get behind me," Whitey growled, his voice low and steady as he grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the cover of some nearby rocks.

I didn’t hesitate, though I knew I should have. His grip was strong, unyielding, and I could hear the crack of his rifle as he fired once more.

I pressed myself into the rocks, barely able to catch my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. "Whitey," I whispered, my voice shaky. "Why… Why are you—"

"Quiet," he snapped, his gaze never leaving the rustlers as he aimed again. "I’m not letting them get you."

There was a calm certainty in his tone that did little to ease the panic knotting in my stomach. He’d always been like this—steady, unshakable. But now, with danger so close, it was different. He wasn’t just trying to protect me like before. There was something deeper, a fiercer need in his actions.

Another bandit fell, his horse bolting off in a panic. The remaining ones hesitated for a split second, but it was enough for Whitey to finish the job. One last shot, and the last rider was down, blood staining the dirt.

I could hear the thumping of my own heart, and for a moment, everything seemed to still. Whitey slowly lowered his rifle, his expression still unreadable, though his chest heaved with the exertion.

"That’s the last of them," he muttered, turning to me. "You alright?"