I was legally authorized to shoot the “killer” black horse trespassing on my property, but when I saw what it was doing to my mute daughter, my heart stopped completely.
My finger hovered over the cold metal trigger of my hunting rifle. The crosshairs were locked dead center on the massive, scarred chest of the black stallion standing in my backyard.
The local sheriff had warned me just two days ago. He didn’t even step out of his cruiser when he delivered the news.
He just rolled down his window and told me a rogue, dangerous animal was terrorizing the valley. It had already put a local surveyor in the hospital.
“If that monster steps onto your land, you have every right to put it down,” the sheriff had said, his voice completely flat. “Especially with a little girl living here. Don’t hesitate.”
So, when the giant beast stepped out of the pine trees that morning, I was ready. I rested the heavy barrel of my rifle on the porch railing and took a steady breath.
