A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [118]
The gap between him and the man who was going to kill him had narrowed even more. It wasn’t going to be long. Directly ahead of him now was the herd—several dozen bison, statuelike except for the bursts of frozen vapor from their nostrils.
Unpredictable … More deadly than a grizzly … Hooves … horns … head.
The wrangler’s warning resonated in his thoughts as he neared the closest of the majestic beasts. There was a slight stirring among them, but no other movement. Their heavy breathing seemed to mirror his own.
Griff moved stealthily past a huge bull, keeping his hands tightly against his sides. Risking another glance backward, he saw the silhouette of the man, bending over the spot where the submachine gun had landed. Moments later, the weapon was in his hand and he was carefully climbing over the fence. For a short time the night was eerily silent save for the snorting of the bison, the steady swoosh of the wind, and the blood from Griff’s own heart pounding through his ears.
The restlessness of the herd seemed to be intensifying as he made his way among them. Their grunts grew louder as if they had begun communicating with one another. A few had dropped their enormous heads to graze at what pockets of straw remained scattered about, or perhaps as some sort of signal to the others. Always, though, it seemed as if their eyes were upon him.
Easy, guys … easy.
A number of the larger animals swung their heads up as Griff passed. Dagger-sharp horns turned in his direction. Dark faces, concealed by dense curls of shaggy hair, followed his movement among them.
Easy …
The bison’s hooves began shuffling beneath their short, powerful legs. Several of them started to shift from side to side. The grunting seemed louder, the plumes of vapor more intense.
Then gunfire erupted.
Griff’s antagonist was on one knee, just past the shallow swale. At first, it seemed to Griff as if the bison weren’t going to react. He was a few feet into the herd. Ahead of him and to his left, still some distance away, he could see the barn.
There was another volley from the submachine gun, then another.
Griff swore out loud. Clearly he had overlooked the safety when he had control of the weapon.
At that moment, one of the larger bulls toppled over. A second snorted loudly. Several more animals shifted away from the fallen beast. All of them seemed to be milling and bellowing at once. Then the herd began to charge directly toward Griff.
Bullets continued crackling through the frigid air. Another bison keeled over. The hoofbeats of the herd became deafening. Vapor spewed out from flared nostrils like steam from fast-running trains. Griff was knocked to his left by the flank of a passing cow, and then slammed to the ground by another. He scrambled between hooves, expecting any moment to have a one-ton animal crush his skull or finish the damage in his chest.
Time slowed to a stop as the bison thundered past, legs and hooves brushing against Griff, but none of them connecting directly. Dust beaten upward from the wintry ground filled his nose and throat, choking him. The hoofbeats resonated through his chest like cannon fire. He imagined the huge killer laughing as he released the safety on his gun and laughing even harder when he decided to use it to start a stampede.
From not far away, there was another burst of gunfire. A huge animal dropped dead in front of Griff and rolled over, ending motionless with the top of its enormous, shaggy head resting against Griff’s chest. Instantly, the speeding bison parted like the Red Sea to avoid the dead bull. Griff pulled his knees up. Cringing