The big man gutted and then salted the bird, and when he was done he tied it to his saddle horn. It was a smallish bird, a golden brown falcon. He’d missed the larger female, but it wasn’t his fault or the rifle’s fault, one of the six-shot repeaters he had stolen from the army. The bird had flown like winged hell. Earlier in the day he was disappointed by the rifle’s killing power when he shot a grizzly, and it grunted and ran away. That would be one dangerous grizzly the next time it met a man.
Munson rode in looking very used-up. King asked, “Pah Utes coming?”
“Big bend of the river right where you want ’em, waiting like corn-fed ducks.”
“There’s six Injuns bringing thirty horses, nice big ones.”
King grunted with satisfaction. “All right then. We hit them at dawn. Get the men down.”
Did the Indians really think they’d get rifles for horses? Sometimes life was too easy.