“You’ll scalp a ten-year-old Comanche boy, but you’re squeamish about leaving bodies for the coyotes to eat?” Venom had always considered Potter an idiot, and this did nothing to raise his estimation. “I swear, some of you don’t have the sense God gave a goat.”
“We do the best we can,” Potter assured him.
Venom reminded himself that for all their faults, they had stayed loyal to him through all sorts of hardships. “Look. It wasn’t just his sass that got Logan dead. It was how he acted all the time, always prodding me, always giving the notion he could do a better job at leading this outfit. I put up with it longer than I should have because he always held his own in a fight and that’s when we need each other the most. But there are limits to what a man will take and he pushed me over mine.”
“No need to explain, boss,” said Calvert.
“Yes, there is. We can’t have hard feelings. We have to always cover the other’s back. It’s why I don’t let just anyone join us. I only pick those I think we can depend on. I only pick the best.” Venom was flattering them to win them over. He had learned long ago that a carrot worked a lot better than a stick at keeping them content.
“Shucks, boss,” Tibbet said proudly. “We have full pokes thanks to you. There’s not one of us who won’t cover your back when you need it covered.”
Venom smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.” He headed west again. It wasn’t long before he came on one of Rubicon’s marks. It made him think of the time he’d asked the black how he got such a strange name. Rubicon said it had been his pa’s idea, that his pa always intended to stay single, but when he met Rubicon’s mom, he’d given in to temptation and crossed the Rubicon, whatever the hell that was.
A killdeer’s shrill cry brought Venom out of himself. The bird was pretending it had a broken wing and running in circles to get them to go after it and lead them away from its mate and their nest. Venom almost shot it out of spite.
The warm sun and the steady rhythm of his horse began to make Venom drowsy. He stifled a yawn and shook himself. A buffalo wallow appeared, and then another, and yet a third. Since most of the buffs had migrated, he didn’t give any thought to them until a loud grunt heralded the rise of a massive form from out of a wallow partially hidden by high grass.
“Hell,” Venom said, and reined up.
The bull glared and pawed the earth. It was an old bull, well past its prime, its left horn broken.
“Shoot it!” Potter whispered.
Bulls often gathered in small herds when they weren’t battling for harems. The really old ones became loners and wandered the prairie until disease or wolves or something else brought them down.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Hush, you yack,” Venom whispered back. He’d rather let the bull go its ornery way if the bull would let them do the same.
The buff snorted and stamped and shook its huge head.
Venom hoped it wouldn’t charge. He couldn’t afford to lose any of his men. Worse, he might lose a horse. “Stay still, everyone,” he commanded. “We don’t want to rile this critter.”
The bull took a few lumbering steps while rumbling deep in its barrel chest. Again it tossed its head and gouged the ground with a heavy front hoof.
“Damn it,” Venom said under his breath. He thumbed back the hammer on his rifle and curled his finger around the trigger. It was a .75-caliber Brown Bess he had taken from a Mexican he shot and scalped, and could drop just about any animal this side of a whale. But he’d rather not put it to the test against the buff’s inches-thick skull.
The bull kept stomping and snorting.
Venom took a gamble. The buff was working itself up to attack. Maybe it would calm down if they showed that they meant it no harm. Accordingly, he reined to the left to go around.
The buffalo’s beady eyes followed him.
“Stay where you are, you mangy son of a bitch,” Venom said, holding his mount to a walk. Over his shoulder he cautioned his men, “Nice and easy does it, boys.”
“We should ride like hell,” Tibbet suggested.
Suddenly the bull turned and lumbered back down into the wallow and out of sight.
Potter uttered a nervous laugh. “Thank goodness! I thought for sure it would charge.”
Tibbet laughed, too. “We were lucky. The only thing worse than an angry griz is an angry buff.”
Venom twisted to tell them to shut the hell up, that they weren’t out of danger yet and should keep quiet until the wallow was well behind them. He was a shade too late.
Up and over the bank hurtled the old bull. It came at them so fast that it was on them before practically any of them could get off a shot. The twins did. Jeph and Seph fired at the same split second. The bull stumbled, but it didn’t go down. It only slowed and then it was up and at full speed again, its head lowered to ram and gore.
Venom took aim but didn’t shoot. The bull wasn’t broadside, and he wanted it broadside in order to be sure to hit its vitals.
Most of the others were trying to rein to safety.
Potter had his horse halfway around when the bull rammed into it with an audible crunch. His scream and the screech of his stricken mount preceded the crash of both to the hard earth.
“Help me!” Raw fear twisted Potter’s face as he frantically sought to push clear. Above him, the bull dug at his mount’s belly with its good horn. The horse whinnied and kicked and struggled to rise, but the bull had it pinned to the earth. Intestines oozed from a widening cavity.
Venom gigged his own animal, not away from the bull as some of the others were doing but toward it. He pressed the Brown Bess to his shoulder and the moment he had the target he wanted, he fired. The Brown Bess thundered and spat smoke and lead. He’d hoped to drop the bull in its tracks, but it wasn’t to be. No sooner did he fire than the brute left off goring Potter’s horse and wheeled with astounding swiftness for a creature so immense.
“Look out!” Tibbet hollered.
“It’s charging again!” Ryson yelled.
Venom didn’t need the warning. He could see that the bull had a new victim picked out.
It was him.
Chapter Twelve
Logan opened his eyes and was racked with pain. He thought it strange since by rights he should be dead. He remembered Venom pointing a pistol at him. He’d tried to twist aside, but his reflexes were no match for a bullet. He remembered the blast of the shot, remembered the shock of being hit. Then he was falling and the ground rushed up to meet him and after that there was nothing but darkness until now.
Sliding his hands under him, Logan rose onto his elbows. His head pounded, and his stomach churned. Gingerly, he touched his temple and winced. From near his eyebrow to above his ear was a lead-gouged furrow. Probably because he was turning when Venom fired, the bullet had struck a glancing blow. It was the only reason he was alive. Judging by the circle of red under him and the amount of dry blood on his face and neck, he’d bled a lot.
Logan sat up. He wasn’t surprised to find that his rifle and pistols and knife were gone. His former friends had helped themselves to his weapons. To his horse, too.
With great care, Logan slowly stood. Dizziness struck and he swayed but stayed on his feet. Lightly pressing his hand to the wound, he walked in a small circle, establishing that the tracks of his former companions, as he figured they would, pointed to the west. He plodded after them.
With each passing minute the pain subsided a little so that by the end of half an hour it was a persis tent dull ache. His queasiness faded, too. Logan thought of Venom and clenched his fists. The bastard had shot him without warning and left him for dead. No one did that to him and went on breathing. No one.