run over by a
screaming Kiowa’s horse.
The sorrel stretched out his long neck and
lengthened his powerful stride, muscles flexing with machine
precision. Quint knew though that a sustained long horse race would
end in disaster. The game gelding would not be able to keep up the
pace for any long length of time. He prodded the animal no more,
letting the horse run at his own comfortable speed.
Before long, his horse was starting to flag
a little after the hard run across the prairie. Quint reined the
sorrel back to a walk. It was frustrating, knowing that the Indians
might be gaining considerably on him, but it would be even more
disastrous if he ran his horse into the ground. A man who galloped
his mount until it quit and died beneath him most likely stood a
good chance of winding up dead alongside the horse.
He pulled rein near some cottonwood trees,
hoping to give the animal a little respite. Before he could
dismount, he picked up the distinctive sound of hoof beats growing
closer.
Quint believed his death was inevitable and
imminent. He did not even consider that any one of those braves
would kill him without remorse. He just palmed his six-gun,
figuring to take a few with him, but first he would ride as far and
fast as this tired horse would take him.
He wheeled his horse and urged the lathered
animal on while muttering oaths under his breath. You’d think the
savages’ horses were just as tired and could use a rest but they
were close now, smelling blood, intent on catching him.
When the tops of the buildings came into
view, Quint didn’t know for sure whose place it was, most likely
the old Nickerson place. He had heard that Irishman Kelly O’Brian
and his group were dealing to buy it. He’d seen O’Brian and the
others on the streets of Wolf Creek a while back. At least it gave
hope for a possible sanctuary.
A rifle cracked and a bullet sliced through
the air over Quint’s head. He turned for a quick glance. None of
the Indians had come in striking distance to him yet, but they were
sure getting closer.
Maybe, just maybe his horse could make it to
the ranch up ahead. He hoped who ever lived there could see what
was going on and give him some assistance. As he got nearer, he
could see a barn, corral and the rectangular main house out on a
treeless plain. The folks that lived here had to be in fear because
of the recent Kiowa raids and the killings that had taken
place.
Quint could see a man outside between the
house and barn. The man began running towards the house when he
recognized that a group of Indians were chasing and firing upon a
lone rider.
Quint could now hear the yipping and howling
of the braves behind him. They were close enough to curdle a soul
with fear. An arrow seeking his life whizzed past his ear. He
cocked his six-gun then turned in the saddle and fired the .44 colt
at an advancing warrior scarcely ten yards away. The brave threw
his arms out then tumbled backwards off his horse. The other
Indians were twenty yards or so behind the fallen one.
Quint leaned over his saddle then turned and
fired his six-gun until empty toward the horde of screaming
warriors charging toward him.
As Quint neared the ranch, a volley of rifle
fire from the house whistled past him and into the charging
Indians. The Indians reversed their dust, bringing their ponies to
a halt. The leaders of the group turned the horses away to assess
the situation. They had not caught the lone rider on the open
prairie, but still intended to finish the job. Some stilled their
mounts then took aim with their rifles and sent some lead hornets
toward Quint. Fortunately, though close, none of the bullets hit
him but gave the message that the two-legged wolves were not about
to desert their prey.
Quint holstered his empty .44 then took in
hand the spare six-gun from the holster on the saddle horn. He rode
right up to the front of the house then whipped a leg over and slid
from the saddle before the horse had even stopped.
screaming Kiowa’s horse.
The sorrel stretched out his long neck and
lengthened his powerful stride, muscles flexing with machine
precision. Quint knew though that a sustained long horse race would
end in disaster. The game gelding would not be able to keep up the
pace for any long length of time. He prodded the animal no more,
letting the horse run at his own comfortable speed.
Before long, his horse was starting to flag
a little after the hard run across the prairie. Quint reined the
sorrel back to a walk. It was frustrating, knowing that the Indians
might be gaining considerably on him, but it would be even more
disastrous if he ran his horse into the ground. A man who galloped
his mount until it quit and died beneath him most likely stood a
good chance of winding up dead alongside the horse.
He pulled rein near some cottonwood trees,
hoping to give the animal a little respite. Before he could
dismount, he picked up the distinctive sound of hoof beats growing
closer.
Quint believed his death was inevitable and
imminent. He did not even consider that any one of those braves
would kill him without remorse. He just palmed his six-gun,
figuring to take a few with him, but first he would ride as far and
fast as this tired horse would take him.
He wheeled his horse and urged the lathered
animal on while muttering oaths under his breath. You’d think the
savages’ horses were just as tired and could use a rest but they
were close now, smelling blood, intent on catching him.
When the tops of the buildings came into
view, Quint didn’t know for sure whose place it was, most likely
the old Nickerson place. He had heard that Irishman Kelly O’Brian
and his group were dealing to buy it. He’d seen O’Brian and the
others on the streets of Wolf Creek a while back. At least it gave
hope for a possible sanctuary.
A rifle cracked and a bullet sliced through
the air over Quint’s head. He turned for a quick glance. None of
the Indians had come in striking distance to him yet, but they were
sure getting closer.
Maybe, just maybe his horse could make it to
the ranch up ahead. He hoped who ever lived there could see what
was going on and give him some assistance. As he got nearer, he
could see a barn, corral and the rectangular main house out on a
treeless plain. The folks that lived here had to be in fear because
of the recent Kiowa raids and the killings that had taken
place.
Quint could see a man outside between the
house and barn. The man began running towards the house when he
recognized that a group of Indians were chasing and firing upon a
lone rider.
Quint could now hear the yipping and howling
of the braves behind him. They were close enough to curdle a soul
with fear. An arrow seeking his life whizzed past his ear. He
cocked his six-gun then turned in the saddle and fired the .44 colt
at an advancing warrior scarcely ten yards away. The brave threw
his arms out then tumbled backwards off his horse. The other
Indians were twenty yards or so behind the fallen one.
Quint leaned over his saddle then turned and
fired his six-gun until empty toward the horde of screaming
warriors charging toward him.
As Quint neared the ranch, a volley of rifle
fire from the house whistled past him and into the charging
Indians. The Indians reversed their dust, bringing their ponies to
a halt. The leaders of the group turned the horses away to assess
the situation. They had not caught the lone rider on the open
prairie, but still intended to finish the job. Some stilled their
mounts then took aim with their rifles and sent some lead hornets
toward Quint. Fortunately, though close, none of the bullets hit
him but gave the message that the two-legged wolves were not about
to desert their prey.
Quint holstered his empty .44 then took in
hand the spare six-gun from the holster on the saddle horn. He rode
right up to the front of the house then whipped a leg over and slid
from the saddle before the horse had even stopped.
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