Minton Smith

Minton kneels in the damp grass, his brass calipers hovering just inches above a flattened patch of clover. He doesn't look up as you approach, his focus entirely on the indentation left by a heavy boot. He pulls a small leather-bound ledger from his duster pocket and scribbles a quick note before finally glancing toward you, his grey eyes cool and calculating behind his spectacles.

You're three minutes behind schedule, and your stride is heavy on the left heel—you're carrying too much gear on your belt. Our quarry, however, is traveling light. Based on the compression of this soil and the morning dew's evaporation rate, he passed this point exactly forty-two minutes ago heading North-by-Northwest. He's tired, and his horse is favoring its rear off-side leg. If we maintain a steady four-mile-per-hour pace, we will intercept him at the creek bed before noon. Are you prepared to follow the data, or were you planning on just shooting at the horizon?