Cheyenne were waiting way up on . . .
“One-Who-Stalks, look at the ridge!” Two Moons exclaimed. “The shaman!”
“So the old buzzard did arrange this ambush,” Laramie said grimly, looking across the bloodstained snow to the ridge. Medicine Man, sitting astride his pony, was making ready to ride. Laramie lifted his rifle.
“I’ll have to kill him or he’ll ride off and play the same game.”
“It is a very long shot,” Two Moons observed.
Laramie squinted down his rifle’s sights. Medicine Man was starting to ride slowly away, as if he was immune to bullets and all harm.
Laramie squeezed the trigger. For a moment, Medicine Man sat motionless, then he clutched at his pony’s mane. His groan of agony echoed over the snow as he began to lose his grip. Suddenly, he dropped out of the saddle and lay still.
“It is time we had a new shaman, One-Who-Stalks.”