Voodoo unslings his rifle and peers through the scope, his trigger finger on the magazine well.

"Could be just a guy lookin' for some game to hunt. Won't know until we get closer. Assumin' he don't spook."

He looks away from the scope, eyeballing the figure. It's about 200 yards of open ground between them and him, long enough for him to see them coming. Also, conveniently enough, short enough for him to take a potshot at them, should he so desire.

"Think you can get behind him while we work our way toward him, Ellen?"