Swiftcurrent Creek cowpoke

Before this, the biggest thing Indra had ever faced was a sickly stag, from recent memory — a bear, maybe, if she thought long and hard about it; but that brought to mind a cave, or a pit, or some foul-smelling terroir; it jarred her more than the massive black head did, as it lunged for her. She missed a step. She swerved when she did not mean to, spine straightened, chin tucking — then, teeth from every which way.
Not the giant with the ringed eye. The other — yellow eyes, yellow teeth, pressure, danger; Indra chokes and is shaken, forced to stop.
The man who holds her by the throat speaks a warning, and she feels it tremble through her very veins.
She sees Colt clearly, then. His rage — his wounds. He spoke with a goading precision, his expression dire. Indra knew that look as one not to be trifled with. But she felt the pressure of those teeth at her throat.
Cul', she pled, and bled, and stared, while her vision blurred at the edges.
Go, Cul', g-go.