Thunderhead Trail by Jon Sharpe Page B

bellow, similar to the bellows bull buffalo made when they challenged a rival for a cow’s affections. But there were no buffalo that high up.
    Excited, Fargo slid his tin cup into a saddlebag, forked leather, and rode up out of the gully. He drew rein and rose in the stirrups to try to catch sight of the animal responsible—and there it was, not fifty yards away, staring right at him.
    â€œGod in heaven,” Fargo blurted.
    Jim Tyler had said that Thunderhead was a large bull. But “large” didn’t do him justice. The bull was gargantuan, taller at the shoulders and broader and more massive than the Ovaro, with a horn spread of some seven feet. It was a brindle color, dark brown with darker stripes, except around the eyes and the brow where it was almost white.
    It looked to be a longhorn, although Tyler never mentioned that fact.
    Fargo stared and the bull stared, and then it snorted and pawed the ground.
    â€œOh, hell,” Fargo said.
    With another of those tremendous bellows, Thunderhead lowered his head and charged.
    Hauling on the reins, Fargo rode into the gully and up and out the other side and jabbed his spurs. The Ovaro didn’t need much urging.
    Fargo glanced back and saw Thunderhead come hurtling out of the gully and pound in pursuit. A bull that size could easily bowl the stallion over, to say nothing of the wounds those deadly horns could inflict.
    A boulder loomed and Fargo avoided it. He swept up a short grade and along a bench and looked back again to see if he was increasing his lead. He wasn’t.
    Thunderhead was narrowing it.
    Swearing, Fargo rode for dear life, the Ovaro’s as much as his. He reached the end of the shelf and flew down another grade into thick timber. He figured the closely spaced trees would force Thunderhead to slow and lose ground but the bull slipped through them with a speed and agility that belied his huge size.
    The Ovaro swept out of the forest and a meadow spread before them. Normally, on level ground, the stallion was uncatchable. But no one had told Thunderhead. Incredibly, the bull came on faster than ever.
    Fargo lashed the Ovaro’s reins even though the stallion was flying flat out.
    Resembling nothing so much as a living locomotive, Thunderhead bore down on them.
    Fargo began to think he might have to shoot it. Dead, the bull wasn’t worth a cent, but he’d be damned if he’d let any harm come to the Ovaro.
    He reached the meadow’s end and plunged into more timber. Barely seconds went by and Thunderhead barreled in after him.
    In addition to the drum of heavy hooves and the crash of underbrush, Fargo heard the bull’s great rasps of breath. It sounded like a blacksmith’s bellows.
    A low limb materialized and Fargo ducked. He reined around a spruce and then around a thicket. The bull avoided the former but crashed through the latter as if it didn’t exist.
    Now Thunderhead was only a few yards behind them.
    Fargo shot between two saplings.
    Thunderhead shot between them, too, and snapped both in half as if they were twigs.
    Fargo flew down a short slope and veered around a small pine that was leaning against another.
    Thunderhead rammed into the pine, splintering it like so much kindling.
    â€œDamn,” Fargo fumed. The bull was damn near indestructible and determined to bring him down.
    The Ovaro galloped up a short slope and out into the open again. And suddenly Fargo had a whole new problem.
    He had the bull behind him.
    And the Blackfeet in front of him.

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    The warriors seemed as surprised to see Fargo as he was to see them. They had heard him and the bull crashing through the forest and had drawn rein with their arrows nocked and lance arms cocked, and two who had rifles were ready to shoot.
    The instant Fargo set eyes on them, he reined sharply to one side.
    A rifle spanged but the Blackfoot missed. Several of the others uttered piercing war whoops and goaded their mounts toward him.
    That was