The beams moved quickly, sweeping over the frozen cornstalks toward the middle of my land.

I knew the heavy stride of the man in front before he ever stepped out into the open lane.

It was Kurt Ostrowski, his bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder by the strap.

Behind Kurt came Russ Lindahl and Mike Pruett, lugging their gear and talking in low, sure voices that carried over the field.

“They think the ridge is theirs this morning,” I whispered to Dale.

“They think they paid for it,” Dale answered quietly, his hands clasped low in front of him.