The Trailsman #284 by Jon Sharpe

Author:Jon Sharpe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House LLC
Published: 2010-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

11

Fargo hoped the buffalo had moved on but they were still grazing contentedly, about two hundred of the great shaggy beasts strung along the other side of the stream. He caught up to Thomas and William and cautioned them, “Pick the one you want and don’t go near it until it’s down and dead.”

“Look at them all!” William Peel exclaimed. “Let’s shoot as many as we can. Whoever kills the most wins.”

“You would make a game of senseless slaughter?” Charles said. “One is all we need.”

Thomas rose in his stirrups. “See that big bull by the bank! He’s got enough meat on him to feed an army.” So saying, he jammed the stock of his rifle to his shoulder and flew down the rise at a gallop.

“Wait for us!” William cried.

Fargo cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted to Thomas not to get too close but if Thomas heard him, he gave no sign. The buffalo stopped grazing and looked up, and at William’s next whoop, the entire herd broke into thunderous flight to the southeast.

Water sprayed from under the pounding hoofs of their mounts as the Stains and their cousin crossed the stream. Fargo was only ten yards behind them but it might as well have been a mile. Again he shouted a warning. Again Thomas Stain either did not hear him or chose to ignore him.

The bull they were after was at the rear of the fleeing herd. A massive animal, six feet high at the shoulders and pushing two thousand pounds, it could hold its own against anything on the continent. Despite its bulk it could run as fast as a horse, and with its huge head lowered and its tail held high, it was virtually unstoppable. Except by a bullet. Thomas Stain fired from a range of over a hundred yards and apparently missed. He fired again, and William Peel got off a shot.

A buffalo stumbled, but it wasn’t the bull. A cow running behind it nearly fell but recovered and plunged on, a spreading scarlet trickle on her flank.

Fargo inwardly swore. He hated to see an animal needlessly suffer. Now Charles was firing along with the other two. None scored a hit. Another minute and the herd would be out of range, which suited Fargo just fine.

Then Thomas’ rifle belched smoke and lead and the bull pitched to its knees. Almost instantly the shaggy behemoth was upright and running, but much more slowly, its head swinging from side to side with every bound.

A choking cloud of dust arose. The Stains and Peel galloped into the thick of it, and soon they and the bull and most of the herd were lost to view. “Rein up!” Fargo bawled, to no effect. A rifle cracked, and another. Someone shouted, the cry drowned by the din.

The dust was all around Fargo and the Ovaro. He slowed and heard another shot. Peel hollered something about the bull being down. “Don’t go near it!” Fargo stressed, and drew rein. Only a fool blundered blindly about when a wounded buffalo was in the vicinity.

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