One down.
The second hog didn't flinch. These animals didn't process fear—they processed threat, and the only response hardwired into their skulls was charge harder. Already halfway to Maggie. Ahundred fifty pounds of speed and rage, squealing with a sound like metal tearing.
I hauled my horse to a sliding stop and hit the ground running before the slide finished. Boots digging into soft earth. Thirty yards to close. The hog was faster.
I dropped to a knee. Rifle up. Breathed out. The shot cracked across the creek bed, and the hog stumbled—squealed louder, that horrible high-frequency sound — but kept coming. Gut shot. Not enough.
Maggie fired. The .357 boomed—close range, the hog jerking sideways from the impact—and it finally slowed, dragging, eight feet from her and still trying to close the distance.
I broke into a sprint. Twenty yards. Fifteen.
The third hog had circled wide. Flanking. Coming at Maggie from her blind side—ten feet out, head down, tusks aimed at her exposed back. She didn't know it was there. Her attention was locked on the wounded animal in front of her, and she couldn't turn because her ankle wouldn't let her.
I covered the last ten yards. Stepped between Maggie and the flanking hog. Point-blank. The animal so close I could see the mud caked in its bristles, smell the rank musk of it, see the emptiness in its eyes that wasn't rage at all—just instinct, ancient and absolute.
I fired.
The hog dropped three feet from her, momentum skidding the carcass almost to her boots. I pivoted. Found the wounded second hog still dragging itself forward. One final shot. Clean.
The echo rolled across the creek bed, and then there was nothing. Stillness. Three bodies in the dirt. Maggie alive behind me.
My hands locked on the rifle, scanning the brush line because I learned to never assume it was over.
"Jack." Her voice. Thin. Controlled in a way that told me how much that control was costing.
I turned. She was on the ground, face pale beneath dirt and sweat, both hands wrapped around her ankle. Her revolver lay beside her, hammer still cocked. She'd been ready. She'd have fought.
But the third hog had been behind her. She'd have taken the tusks in the back.
I shoved the thought away. Later.
I knelt beside her, hands already moving—sliding around her ankle, probing for the grinding of broken bone. She sucked in a breath when I pressed the side.
"Don't—"
"Let me see." Level. Sure.
She hesitated. Released her ankle.
Not broken. I was almost sure. High ankle sprain—bad. Swelling already ballooning beneath the skin.
"Can you move your toes?"
She did, jaw clenched. "Yes."
"Good. We're going to wrap it and get you home."
Hooves behind us. Owen and Wyatt arrived at a gallop, both ashen, both staring at three dead hogs and Maggie on the ground, and me kneeling beside her with blood on my boots.
Owen's eyes swept the scene. The angles of the shots. The distance I'd covered. Something shifted in his face—a recalculation.
"Jesus," Wyatt breathed, swinging down.
"You okay?" Owen dropped beside Maggie. His voice was rough. Barely held.
"Fine." Tight. Strained. "Just stupid. I should've?—"
"Hogs don't announce themselves," I said.
