All quiet.

But for wind seducing grass and droplets of water from a near spring. I lay prone upon a hill, blanketed by warm summer air. Condensation beneath my wool betray not heat, but fear.
Beyond my flanks lie men possessed, or like me, dispossessed of Lucifer or Jehovah.
Americans new we are, but this all available for opportunity or familial supplement.
Within wind and water we listen, keeping heads low, when bees angry swarm about.

The crack of rifle soon betrays.
And we lay lower in our pits.

Our second reaction, to pull a cartridge from a leather case and unbreech our locks. Amid growing yelps and dusty hoof-beats below, I brood at the size of lead bullet, before inserting and cocking bolt and hammer.
This day, already scarred, shall to history fade.