The locoed steer stood a few feet away pawing the earth and looking at
him with dim eyes, all blood-shot and crazy, not making a move toward
him, yet always seeming about to do so.
Stealthily, inch by inch, Ted crawled toward where his forty-five lay on
the ground.
It was six feet from where he lay to that gun, and he prayed silently
that he could reach it before the steer changed its mind and rushed him.
He knew it would do no good for him to rise and go toward the weapon. If
he did, the steer would immediately rush him, and that would be the end
of things for him, for he would stand no chance whatever against that
terrible beast, crazed, and powerful beyond its ordinary strength.
As long as he crept gently the steer seemed not to notice him.
Now he was within five feet of the revolver with his arm stretched out
at full length. It was only four feet now, and still the steer did not
make any move to attack him.
He was trying to think where he would shoot it. In the throat, ranging
so that the bullet would pierce its heart; or through the eye, and so
reach its brain.
Now his fingers closed around the weapon, and he clutched it
convulsively, leaping to his feet like an acrobat.
At the same moment the steer, bellowing like an insane thing, charged
upon him, and he fired into its blue eye.
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