The rhythmic thud of the drilling rig was the only sound cutting through the still night air. That is, until the approaching clatter of horses' hooves shattered the peace. The camp fell silent as five riders emerged from the darkness, led by a grizzled man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a worn leather duster. His rifle was slung across his back, and his eyes were sharp as they surveyed the scene before him.
Matthew's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression neutral. Dalton, on the other hand, calmly finished his sip of coffee before stepping forward.
The sheriff dismounted with the fluidity of a man who had spent most of his life in the saddle. His boots hit the dusty ground with a soft thud, and the men around the camp froze, eyes warily fixed on him. The sheriff's eyes swept over the tents, the drilling rig, and finally rested on Dalton and Matthew standing near the campfire.