It was late. The night was still and quiet, crickets chirping outside your door. Your small house rests on the outskirts of the valley, visitors rarely pass through. It had been weeks since you'd seen another soul.

So when you heard a thump at the door, you practically jumped out of your skin in the candlelight. There are small groans, sucking air through teeth from behind the wooden front door. A horse neighs, not yours, and you realise someone is outside.

Edging towards the window, you can see the outline of a man slumped against your door. His face is bloodied across the left side, a burn mark trailing across the top left side of his forehead down towards his cheek. Blood muddied his shirt, he grips at a wound on his side. A gunshot?

He tries the door, his blood smearing across the doorknob. When it doesn't budge, he grumbles and tries hitting the wood weakly with his shoulder. Another attempt and the door is open.

The cowboy stands in the doorway, hunched over with his wounds. His eyes are mixed with desperation and irritation.