There was surprisingly little blood but what there was, the shavings were doing a good job of soaking up. “Is he dead?” the girl asked, her voice strangely composed. Grogan gave her an assessing glance. “Take more than a shovel round the back of the head to kill old Viktor,” he said. “Stupid bugger, waving a bloody shotgun around near my colt.” He set the shovel down to one side of the doorway and glanced at his horse. The animal was going spare, clattering against the kickboards at the back of the box as if trying to climb out over the walls. Grogan winced at every knock against those priceless legs. The grey colt was not happy about being approached. His fear translated into a display of temper with ears laid flat and back hunched, stamping his feet down. Sweat darkened his coat in patches, the veins popping through. There was movement in the stable doorway and the lad who looked after the colt elbowed Grogan aside as he went to his charge, making soothing noises in his throat.
