Rusty Shannon almost despaired of stopping the runaway horse. The heavy firing had frightened Alamo into a blind panic. Each stride brought excruciating pain, seeming to drive the arrow deeper into Rusty’s leg. It had glanced off the bone. Blood flowed freely, warm and gummy to his fingers as he awkwardly holstered the pistol and grasped the shaft of the arrow. He struggled in vain, trying to pull it out.

The reins trailed on the ground, dropped along with the rifle when the arrow had struck. Reins could be a hazard. Looped, they could snag on a tree branch while a horse ran. If split, like these, a running horse could step on them, jerk his head down, and take a hard fall.

Through his pain, Rusty recognized that danger. He leaned forward, trying to grab a rein. Light-headed, he could not reach it without tumbling from the saddle. Yet he knew that at any moment Alamo could turn a somersault. Rusty stood a strong chance of being crushed beneath him.

He was aware of another horse closing from the left. He assumed the rider was a Comanche, come to finish him off. He felt helpless to defend himself, though he drew the pistol again. Blood on his hand made it feel sticky as syrup.

Tanner’s shout relieved his fear. “Hold on, redhead. I’m comin’.” Tanner pushed his horse up against Alamo and reached down, his bony hand grasping the reins. He dallied them around his saddle horn. “Got you.” He slowly brought both horses to a stop. Alamo breathed hard, eyes rolling in the aftermath of fright. “Damn it, Rusty, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck shoat.”

Blood had spread down Rusty’s leg to the stirrup and the toe of his boot.

Tanner said, “I’ll get you back to the rest of the bunch. Wouldn’t want some stray Indians to catch us out here by ourselves and pick us off. Say, I’ll bet that arrow hurts like hell.”

Rusty’s head seemed to spin. He was in some danger of falling from the saddle. He attempted three times before he managed to shove his pistol back into the holster. It tried to stick to his hand. “Damn right it hurts.”

“We’ll get it out soon’s we can. Me and Captain Whitfield, we’re pretty good at pocketknife surgery.”

Pocketknife! The thought did not encourage confidence. But anything to lessen the pain.

Tanner said, “I seen you miss that Indian. You were so close, I don’t understand how you kept from hittin’ him.”

“Alamo was faunchin’ around too much.” Rusty did not know how anyone could make a good shot from the back of a running horse.

“Maybe you’ve taken a case of buck fever. You ever shoot at anybody before?”

“Been tempted, but I ain’t done it.” Rusty hoped the interrogation would stop. He hurt too much to think straight.