“All right, Sandy,” said Buck as he strung together the reins of the two horses. “Git off and on your way, cowboy! And use them spurs.”
Sandy Davitt leaped to his saddle, yelled at his cayuse, and was gone in a mad rush.
For a little Sam Fisher could only cling to his pommel, faint with pain, his head swirling. When he came to himself he found himself riding beside the still senseless Steve Arnold. Buck rode in front, their reins fastened to his saddle, his rifle across the pommel. He glanced back and glinted a hard smile at the sheriff of Pecos.
“You’re luckier than most, Fisher. Yes, sir, you sure are. If it’d been anybody else you’d be dead this minute.”
Sam Fisher tried to smile. “I don’t see, Buck, why in thunder you didn’t finish the job. It isn’t like you to weaken at killing a man.”
“I may yet.” Buck eyed him morosely. “Reckon I got sentimental for a spell.”
“Then you’d better do it quick,” said Fisher, “for I’ll sure get you, Buck. Yes, sir, I’ll sure——”
His words ended in a groan of anguish and he clutched at the pommel.
Buck smiled. “I reckon you won’t do no gettin’ for some while to come, sheriff; you with a bum laig, a busted arm, and a bullet through the shoulder!”
“I’ve still got one good arm.” Fisher tried to smile, but his lips twisted in pain. A groan was torn from him again. “This knee! I can’t ride with it, Buck.”