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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Bobitron" data-source="post: 2122092" data-attributes="member: 25479">Dakota spurs his pony off after the rapidly disappearing cattle in an attempt to stop the stampede. The ride to catch the herd is a fast one; Lightning has a inborn ability to find his way through tough terrain unlike that of any horse he has worked with. Most cowboys tend to view horses as tools, but the effort Dakota has put into training Lightning really shows through in an instance like this.Moving quickly up through the herd in a jostling, dusty moment, Dakota reaches the head steer, a large, scarred bull with wide horns. With slight pressure on his left side, he starts to guide the herd toward the river. With no place to run except back into the cold waters of the Clementine, the steer circles the herd around in an ever tightening circle until half of the herd is barely moving. Dakota’s lasso flashes out at the bull and lands firmly around the thick horns. Pulling hard on the reins, Turnbow practically sits Lightning onto the ground, leaning hard back into his saddle to shift his weight down to the ground. The bull twists and falls to the ground in a heap. The remainder of the herd begins to mill about, breathing hard and steaming into the cooling night air.Riley and Jeb continue their sharp-eyed watch over the area around the corral, carefully aiming at each of the rustlers in turn as Buckley and Michael move among them, disarming the criminals and using short lengths of rope to bind their hands. Once they are bound and kneeling in near the wagon, Riley moves down to guard the prisoners, joining the others in the light of the lanterns.The Marshal moves carefully around the north of the corral, squinting to see through the dust raised by the herd. His rifle leveled to the west, he makes his way along the river, carefully glancing back and forth as he scans for Callahan. Moving to the brush (square C5), he spots the trampled body of a man, his ribcage poking through his shirt in a few spots and his face bloodied beyond recognition. Letting out a low whistle, the Marshal hears a metallic click and spins about to see what must be Callahan lying about 5 paces away.Callahan is a ruddy-faced Irishman wearing a gentleman’s outfit, bleeding from a bullet wound in his chest. He fumbles as he tries to draw a small nickel-plated pistol from his belt, dropping it nearby on the ground. Both of his legs are shattered and bent at an angle that the good Lord never intended.“Damn you to Hell, lawman.” He spits out a bloody tooth in the Marshal’s direction.</blockquote>

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