I was ambushed this morning.
It was close to nine, and I was walking Baird, one of my horses. He hadn’t been well of late and I was worried for him. I had kept the saddle off him and him out of the traces. I was more concerned with his well-being than with any work that might be needed to be done. There were always hands to hire, which meant other horses could be brought in to do the work when necessary.
I thought the walk might do him some good, and for the most part, it seemed to have done exactly that. There was a definite spring to his step and occasionally, he would toss his head and stamp his forefeet to let me know he was there.
We stopped in the north field so he might nose about, and it was then the creatures attacked.
They came running from the woods and the tree-line atop the slight rise. I was impressed with the speed and the infinite danger they possessed.
I had no sooner drawn my Colts than the first of them arrived, launching itself at Baird, who clove its skull in two as he came down with both hooves.
The battle lasted only a few minutes. Enough time for me to empty both barrels and resort to my knife. I was bloodied and cut, but my wounds were already healing as I turned to see to Baird.
My horse was not nearly so lucky as I.
He had been gutted, and most of his innards had spilled out. Baird sank to the ground and settled, turning his great head towards me as I knelt beside him.
There was only one way to ease his pain, and though I was loathed to do so, I loaded a single round, pressed the mouth of the Colt’s barrel to his forehead, and pulled the trigger.
The reverberation of the shot in the stillness of the field was the death knell of the creatures.
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