Just now, Dalton Kasel is gone a minute ago.

 

 

Just now, Dalton Kasel is gone a minute ago.

 

The announcer’s voice echoed through the dust-choked arena, cutting through the rumble of the crowd like a crack of thunder over a prairie storm. It didn’t make sense to anyone, least of all to the man holding Dalton’s bull rope in his trembling hands.

 

“He was just here,” murmured Slim Watkins, Dalton’s closest friend and traveling partner. He looked down at the scuffed dirt where Dalton had stood seconds ago—boots planted wide, hat low, lips mouthing the same prayer he always whispered before mounting the bull.

 

Slim had blinked. That was it. Just one blink. And now—now there was nothing. No Dalton. No shadow. Just dust slowly settling, particles drifting lazily through the early evening light slicing in through the arena rafters.

 

“Where’d he go?” someone asked, their voice trembling more from confusion than fear. Another cowboy tilted his hat back, scanned the empty space around the chute, and shook his head.

 

The bull was still there, snorting steam and stomping like thunder incarnate. Widowmaker, a ten-time Finals bull, big and black with murder in his eyes. He hadn’t bucked yet. He hadn’t moved at all, save for that twitch in his flank and a slow turn of his massive head.

 

And Dalton Kasel was gone.

 

Not bucked. Not thrown.

 

Gone.

 

The announcer said it again, slower this time. “Ladies and gentlemen, I… I don’t know what to say. Dalton Kasel… was just here. A minute ago.”

 

Somewhere in the crowd, someone laughed nervously. A child started crying. A beer can clattered to the ground.

 

Slim looked around. His heart thudded in his chest like a bull hammering against the metal chute. This had to be a trick, a stunt, maybe some fancy magic thing cooked up by sponsors for ratings. He’d seen Dalton twenty seconds ago—smiling that crooked smile, adjusting his glove, tapping his helmet twice like always.

 

And now—just an echo of boots on dirt.

 

“I don’t like this,” muttered Rico, another rider leaning over the gate. “Ain’t right. Ain’t natural.”

 

Slim didn’t answer. He climbed into the chute with Widowmaker, though every instinct screamed not to. Maybe Dalton slipped and fell behind the bull. Maybe he hit his head. Maybe—

 

Nothing. No one. Just leather and steel and the pulsing rage of an animal that hadn’t yet been let loose.

 

“Dalton!” Slim shouted. “You playin’ a joke? Come on, man!”

 

Silence.

 

Slim stepped down, wiping sweat from his face. The air smelled wrong—like ozone and old dirt, like a lightning strike just missed the earth.

 

Then something shimmered.

 

Just for a moment.

 

Off in the corner of the arena, near the far gate where they led the bulls out. A flicker, like heat rising off asphalt in August. Slim turned toward it, squinting. He saw…

 

A shape.

 

A man. Standing still.

 

And then he was gone.

 

Slim’s blood ran cold.

 

That night, the rodeo shut down early. People left in murmuring clumps, looking over their shoulders, whispering theories that sounded like campfire tales and bad dreams. Ghost stories. Government experiments. The Devil come to collect.