Wyatt waited to move until the stranger did, slipping from his cover and behind him, as the man reached and scrubbed at his face, distracted. He closed the distance with quick, efficient steps.

His fingers itched, the phantom weight of his six-shooter against his palm, and he shifted the spear, lifted the head -- and touched the flat of the blade to the man's shoulder, edge whispering against his throat.

A warning, move wrong and he wasn't going to like the results, but also an opportunity. Wyatt wasn't set on killing on him, didn't want to, wouldn't -- if the stranger didn't make him.