For a couple of miles, Tom sat comfortably in his saddle, the swaying motion lulling him into a peaceful awareness of the scenic beauty of the land.
Jed’s horse reared abruptly; the sound of the rifle shot instantly followed. Jed leaped clear as the animal shrieked in pain, thrashing and kicking as it staggered and plunged to the side of the road, whinnying in torment.
Tom spurred his mare into the trees as a second shot echoed. He swung down, pulled his rifle from the saddle scabbard, slapped the horse deep into the woods and dropped prone behind an earthen mound, his eyes seeking the shooter. “Leave the horse! Find cover!”
Jed scrambled to the other side of the road and hid behind a tree as his horse squirmed and kicked spasmodically and then lay still. “Where is he?” he yelled.
“Up that hill to the right, I think,” Tom responded. “Won’t be sure ’til he shoots again.”
They waited.
Five minutes went by, then ten.
“Think he’s gone?” Jed asked.
“Don’t move. If we can wait, so can he.”
“Maybe if we start shooting up there, we might flush him out.”
“Waste of bullets. Ain’t got any idea of where he might be.”
“You said up on that hill.”
“I might’ve been wrong.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Stay put. I ain’t in no hurry to get myself killed.”
“Who was shooting?”
“Danged poor is what they was,” Tom said. “Two shots with a rifle and all they got was that poor damned horse.”
Two hours later, Tom crawled to a large tree and stood up, sweeping his gaze into the woods behind him. “Keep your head down,” he called softly. “I think he’s gone, but I’m going to circle up around there and make sure.”
Jed lifted a hand in a signal of compliance, then crouched closer to his tree.
Tom dashed from cover to cover, careful not to make a rhythm of his moves as he headed toward the hill. His greatest danger would be to cross the road, so he moved through the trees on the left until he was well past the suspected position of the shooter.
I’m a damned fool, he decided as he emerged from the woods and ran full speed across the open road.
