No time to trust

Picture a tall thin man standing in the middle of another man's yard, a man lying dead at his feet. Picture a seven-year-old, tow-headed girl peering at him from around the corner of a log cabin. Picture the thin man staring at the girl, slowly removing his hat. He does it carefully, his scalp wound still sore and worrisome. Picture him looking for answers, first at the closed door of the cabin, then at the dead man, his corpse swelling in the heat of the morning sun. Picture the girl staring back at him as though he is the answer to a prayer offerd up in her loneliness. It's not that he minds being the answer to her prayer, but what is he doing there? Why is there a man lying dead at his feet? Who is he? And how did he get that way?