He thought it strange since by rights he should be dead. He remembered Venom pointing a pistol at him. He’d tried to twist aside, but his reflexes were no match for a bullet. He remembered the blast of the shot, remembered the shock of being hit. Then he was falling and the ground rushed up to meet him and after that there was nothing but darkness until now. Sliding his hands under him, Logan rose onto his elbows. His head pounded, and his stomach churned. Gingerly, he touched his temple and winced. From near his eyebrow to above his ear was a lead-gouged furrow. Probably because he was turning when Venom fired, the bullet had struck a glancing blow. It was the only reason he was alive. Judging by the circle of red under him and the amount of dry blood on his face and neck, he’d bled a lot. Logan sat up. He wasn’t surprised to find that his rifle and pistols and knife were gone. His former friends had helped themselves to his weapons. To his horse, too. With great care, Logan slowly stood.
