He picked the animals off the edge of the herd, so that those behind had to swerve farther and farther to the right in order to find clear ground.
Sping! coughed the rifle; clatter, clatter, sping!
Six shots emptied the magazine, but the last two bullets dropped steers in such a way that those behind tumbled over the slain, so that there was a horrible tangle of living and struggling animals, rolling and floundering on the plain.
But the main part of the herd had been deflected. Sitting breathless in his saddle, the king of scouts saw the edge of the rushing herd just graze the stakes. Loose earth was thrown at him and Perry by the flying hoofs, and a choking fog rolled around and over them.
In three or four minutes the last of the steers had passed. Six had been left on the plain, and to those six Buffalo Bill and Perry owed their lives.
Wild Bill and Dunbar, now that the dust had settled somewhat so they could see, put spurs to their horses and dashed toward the scout.
“What were you killing Circle-B steers for, pard?” asked Wild Bill, his voice husky with the dust.
“To turn the herd so it would go around Perry,” answered the scout.
“Perry?” echoed Dunbar.
The scout backed Bear Paw one side and waved his hand toward the stakes, and the man bound between them.