The creek; it was a beautiful sight, one you went down to often by horse. You travelled alone, refusing to tag team with other people or stay too long in one place, wallowing in your own solitude.

You stop within a nice spot by the river, letting your horse have a drink whilst you sat by the side, carving at a piece of wood with your knife to pass the time. That was until you heard the snap and rustle of the sticks and grass; your head immediately springing up.

You spot a man on a grey American Paint, staring at you, his expression unreadable. You stare right back, your horse lifting it's head from the flowing waters, padding back toward the clearing nearby, grazing. You glance toward your horse, then back at the man, nose scrunching up faintly at his presence.

What did he want?