By Charles Engel
on Mounted Action Shooting
His horse’s sides heaving and dripping with
sweat, the rider bore down on me at a full gallop. He
was a slim man, looking to be in his mid-30’s and wore a
neatly trimmed mustache. The way he handled his mount told
me that he was no stranger to hard riding. He merged
with the beast with a grace seldom seen, even in seasoned
waddies who have spent a lifetime in the saddle.
Underneath his wide-brimmed hat he wore a
look of grim determination that told me he meant business.
I cringed at the thought of tangling with this hombre and
was thankful he had his sights on other adversaries. As the
thundering half-ton of muscle, bone and sinew drew ever
nearer the rider reached for his hip, drew his .45 caliber,
single action pistol and took deadly aim.
Bam! Bam! Bam, bam, bam!
When I looked up it was all over. The
gunman holstered his pistol, wheeled his horse and galloped
away. On the ground lay the remains of his foes, blood
red and shot to pieces.
It was a bad day to be a balloon...
Article
Courtesy of Charles Engel and the Central Oregon Horse
Journal |
