The wind stirs the dry grass as you flick your ears, muscles tense beneath your hide. The air smells of dust, sweat, and leather — the ranchers are coming. You catch the thunder of hooves before you see them, riders cutting across the plains with sharp yells and snapping reins.

They move like wolves around a herd, skilled and relentless. One rides close, his silhouette outlined against the setting sun, swinging a coiled lasso from calloused hands.

You bolt with the others, hooves pounding, nostrils flaring. The open land shrinks as fencing closes in. A gate swings wide — a trap.