The Squaw drew. The cord sang. The shaft whistled to its mark.
It drove the chief backward a few paces like a wounded buck. Then, stopping himself with effort, he lurched forward again. As he came, he raised his bow and sent a second arrow that cut the bushes on the canyon side.
The shaft was his last. His face went suddenly livid, his eyeballs started; drivelling, he clutched at the air—tipped down to his hands—touched—let go his weapon—half-rose—pivoted on a heel, and slipped in a heap to the stones.
A wordless cry broke from the lips of The Squaw. He sped across the coulée-bottom to the side of the dead chief. There he struck the fallen man a blow upon the bare knee, snatched from his head an eagle feather, daubed it across the flowing wound, and thrust it dripping red into his own hair.
Then, as he had not done in years, he straightened. Then he cast from him the foul rags of his squaw's dress. And in clout and the colours of death, he stood forth—a warrior!
"I count a coup—Red Moon!" he cried.
Howls—from a watching band that had been struck dumb.
"A coup, I—Red Moon. Come on, you dogs—you that called me dog. Come on, you squaws that called me squaw. Come on, and a warrior will fight you, one by one!"
Before him, more howls, and a bluster of Uncapapa. Behind the voice again: "Charley! Charley!"
And now Red Moon leaped back to resume his stand. With his turning, the band drew after, sending a shower of arrows.