The cow was out of sight around the hill.
Anxious to catch up, Fargo stepped into the stirrups. “Sorry,” he said to the Ovaro. The stallion apparently smelled or sensed their salvation and needed no urging. It moved before he could tap his spurs. He half feared he would get to the other side of the hill and the cow wouldn’t be there, that it really was his overheated mind playing tricks on him.
Then a valley spread before him, a brown valley, a valley as dry as the hills and the desert. And there was the Jersey cow, moving out across a well-worn trail that led to the far end.
Fargo was so intent on the cow that he didn’t pay much attention to the hill they had just come around. He realized his mistake when he heard a metallic click. Instinctively, he threw himself from the saddle just as a rifle thundered. He landed on his shoulder and rolled onto his belly. Thinking he had several seconds to locate the shooter, he raised his head. But he was wrong. The rifle boomed again, and yet a third time, and miniature dirt geysers came straight toward his face.