When he turned again toward the beast it was charging, and was so close to him that he hardly had time to get out of its way.
He might have made it had not the horse caught the smell of blood, which was running from the steer in several places.
This rattled him so that he lost his footing, and the next instant he was struck on the withers by the steer's horns and went rolling over and over on the prairie, while Ted Strong flew from his back, and landed heavily on the sod, with his revolver knocked from his hand.
The locoed steer stood a few feet away pawing the earth and looking at him with dim eyes, all blood-shot and crazy, not making a move toward him, yet always seeming about to do so.
Stealthily, inch by inch, Ted crawled toward where his forty-five lay on the ground.
It was six feet from where he lay to that gun, and he prayed silently that he could reach it before the steer changed its mind and rushed him.
He knew it would do no good for him to rise and go toward the weapon. If he did, the steer would immediately rush him, and that would be the end of things for him, for he would stand no chance whatever against that terrible beast, crazed, and powerful beyond its ordinary strength.
As long as he crept gently the steer seemed not to notice him.
Now he was within five feet of the revolver with his arm stretched out at full length. It was only four feet now, and still the steer did not make any move to attack him.
He was trying to think where he would shoot it. In the throat, ranging so that the bullet would pierce its heart; or through the eye, and so reach its brain.