[b][u][color=darkorange]Off Chisholm Trail, Near to Selina[/color][/u][/b]

Attacked from the front and snucked up on from behind the Englishman chose to leave the first beast in the capable hands of his two compatriots and charged toward the back of the wagon.  As he rounded the corner he saw him the ruined body of a quickly leaking out coach driver and a panicky coachman with his head fully engulfed by a rather large rather angry cougar's maw.

"Unhand him you savage beast," the Englishman yelled, "or Face My Wrath!"

Lucky for that badly wounded coachman the Englishman had a way with words, or perhaps simply a particularly tasty looking face, for the cougar dipped his head and released his hold, allowing the coachman to scoot his arse back cradling his battered and bleeding head in shaking hands.  Not one to let a golden opportunity pass the Englishman leveled his rather large Howdah Pistol on the beast.  With nothing between him and that cougar Blackburn had a golden opportunity that must be seized upon less he forfeit that opportunity to his foe.

Acquiring his sights he quickly shot twice.  The first round lodging itself just below his target, the beasts head, while the second shot due to recoil and the beasts reaction merely grazed the cougar's head digging a furrow leading from just above it's left eye and up through it's ear.  The Englishman had only just reacquired his sights upon the beast when it dug in with it's hind legs to pounce, shuddered, and fell.  The first shot had done the job.  From close range and with nothing to obstruct his sights it was clear to Blackburn at least that he had struck a fatal blow.

The coachman rises unsteadily, leaning against the coach and using it for support makes his way over to the beast aiming his shotgun at it.  He pulls the trigger having momentarily forgotten that he was on empty.

"Shit..." he mutters trying to work the mechanism to reload but finding it difficult with his hands bloody as they are.

They might not all have realized it all at once, but this battle was over.  That first cougar, the one in the brush, it slinked away after taking one of Kaufmann's rounds in the shoulder.  It wouldn't be goin' no where too fast, but it were smart enough to know when it were beat.  Trail of blood led out and away from the trail, but even wounded the damn thing would move much faster through the brush than a man.  Trail of blood would help follow it fer sure, but without a good tracker trying to keep an eye out for it it would slow them down even more.

The coachman kicks the body and nearly trips over it, weakened as he is.

"Gotta get out here," he says wiping blood and thick cougar saliva from his face, "all that racket an' all this blood'll bring other critters.  Reckon I ought to get sewed up too."

He leans against the coach resting his bloody head on the wood paneling, "Bounty," he mutters now becoming harder to understand, "on the c..at.  Just gotta drive it back," then reaches up to climb into the driver's seat and falls over.