pain.
Either wall would serve as a strong point, but the west wall would deepen first and shadow the longest. It was tumbled where boulders had fallen from its heights and strewn the desert floor. This was their best advantage. It was also their only one. He made his decision to anchor their thin line at the west wall and extend it out from there. They would hold this way as long as they could and then they would close on the strong point at the west wall and dig in.
Get closer to the ground, he told himself. Get under the storm.
He dismounted the Rattler horse while it was still moving and tried to gentle its shivering and trembling chest. Its hide was dark with sweat down to its flanks and withers, its mouth a torrent of white combings.
There was nothing left in any of the horses. They were blown and jaded and fogged from every ounce of flight wrung from within them. They’d gotten everything out of them they possibly could and truth be told they were broken and they would never be fit again. He commanded the Rattler horse to lie down at the center of his forming line and it did so promptly. The air began to crackle again and he saw a flicker and the flash of a spark and soon they were bathed in the glow of long blue lights again. Then his troopers emerged from a cloud bank of dust, riding knee to knee, and were so close he could hear the drumming of the horses’ lungs and they too were similarly lit in blue, their bodies made luminous and for the briefest moment they were as if firedrakes.
As the rest staggered in, one after another, rearing and plunging, trails of dust and sand devils catching up with them, he directed them into position. He did not give their green minds an inch of leeway. In one hand he held the Springfield and in the other he held bandoleers of clipped ammunition.
“Get them down,” he yelled. “Get them down,” and when Turner’s horse would not go down where he directed it, he stepped forward, unholstered his .45, and shot it through the ear.
“You killed him,” Turner said, his horrified words torn off in the ferocious wind.
“We kilt these horses two hours ago,” he said.
His blood was blunt and his voice clear and cold. He commanded Extra Billy to his right and to his left he placed Preston, Stableforth, and Turner in order. He posted Bandy at the wall by a steep declivity with sheltering rocks a short climb away.
There came a great cracking sound, as if a rifle discharged, and a horse screamed. He whirled on the sound, the Springfield at his shoulder. The gray Preston rode had broken a leg where it stood and fallen to the hard ground. Jagged white bone tore through the animal’s shoulder and stabbed out at the light. Without hesitating, he drew the muzzle of the .45 to the horse’s ear and ended its life.
“We have some work to do today,” he told them, as if what just happened hadn’t happened at all. “It will require some courage.”
He felt the heat flow emanating from his belly and a blood thrill traveling his arteries and returning veins. He called down his darker nature and was contemptuous of the awes and terrors of his history.
Then he told them, “I wouldn’t have no other company for it, not for all the tea in China,” and their spirits soared and they smiled and laughed for how businesslike he’d suddenly become and how much in that moment they loved him and feared him. His eyes caught the look and the smile on the boy’s face, the haunt in his eyes. He turned to Preston and looked into him. By Preston’s own account he’d already killed about one of everything that crawled, walked, slithered, flew, or swam. Except a man. He’d hunted, but he’d never hunted a man or been hunted by one. He knew he was anxious for his chance at distinction. Now it just might come.
On the ground at his feet the Rattler horse blew big sighs, making the creak of leather. He reached down with his knife blade and cut the horse’s bellyband and it sighed again with the
Either wall would serve as a strong point, but the west wall would deepen first and shadow the longest. It was tumbled where boulders had fallen from its heights and strewn the desert floor. This was their best advantage. It was also their only one. He made his decision to anchor their thin line at the west wall and extend it out from there. They would hold this way as long as they could and then they would close on the strong point at the west wall and dig in.
Get closer to the ground, he told himself. Get under the storm.
He dismounted the Rattler horse while it was still moving and tried to gentle its shivering and trembling chest. Its hide was dark with sweat down to its flanks and withers, its mouth a torrent of white combings.
There was nothing left in any of the horses. They were blown and jaded and fogged from every ounce of flight wrung from within them. They’d gotten everything out of them they possibly could and truth be told they were broken and they would never be fit again. He commanded the Rattler horse to lie down at the center of his forming line and it did so promptly. The air began to crackle again and he saw a flicker and the flash of a spark and soon they were bathed in the glow of long blue lights again. Then his troopers emerged from a cloud bank of dust, riding knee to knee, and were so close he could hear the drumming of the horses’ lungs and they too were similarly lit in blue, their bodies made luminous and for the briefest moment they were as if firedrakes.
As the rest staggered in, one after another, rearing and plunging, trails of dust and sand devils catching up with them, he directed them into position. He did not give their green minds an inch of leeway. In one hand he held the Springfield and in the other he held bandoleers of clipped ammunition.
“Get them down,” he yelled. “Get them down,” and when Turner’s horse would not go down where he directed it, he stepped forward, unholstered his .45, and shot it through the ear.
“You killed him,” Turner said, his horrified words torn off in the ferocious wind.
“We kilt these horses two hours ago,” he said.
His blood was blunt and his voice clear and cold. He commanded Extra Billy to his right and to his left he placed Preston, Stableforth, and Turner in order. He posted Bandy at the wall by a steep declivity with sheltering rocks a short climb away.
There came a great cracking sound, as if a rifle discharged, and a horse screamed. He whirled on the sound, the Springfield at his shoulder. The gray Preston rode had broken a leg where it stood and fallen to the hard ground. Jagged white bone tore through the animal’s shoulder and stabbed out at the light. Without hesitating, he drew the muzzle of the .45 to the horse’s ear and ended its life.
“We have some work to do today,” he told them, as if what just happened hadn’t happened at all. “It will require some courage.”
He felt the heat flow emanating from his belly and a blood thrill traveling his arteries and returning veins. He called down his darker nature and was contemptuous of the awes and terrors of his history.
Then he told them, “I wouldn’t have no other company for it, not for all the tea in China,” and their spirits soared and they smiled and laughed for how businesslike he’d suddenly become and how much in that moment they loved him and feared him. His eyes caught the look and the smile on the boy’s face, the haunt in his eyes. He turned to Preston and looked into him. By Preston’s own account he’d already killed about one of everything that crawled, walked, slithered, flew, or swam. Except a man. He’d hunted, but he’d never hunted a man or been hunted by one. He knew he was anxious for his chance at distinction. Now it just might come.
On the ground at his feet the Rattler horse blew big sighs, making the creak of leather. He reached down with his knife blade and cut the horse’s bellyband and it sighed again with the
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