At the Throat he faced them again.
"Braves!" he laughed mockingly. "Dogs—that fight like dogs, a pack against one!"
Now he shot, swift and unerringly. Here one flattened; there, another; a third broke his jaw upon a stone. Till from their midst flew the missile of Big Ox, hard-driven, straight. Quivering, it buried its deadly point in Red Moon's breast.
Deafening whoops echoed in the narrow canyon, drowning the hoof-beats of a nearing horse.
Red Moon answered them. He was swaying to and fro, like a cypress limb in a great wind. He lifted his face to the sky until his crimson scalp-feather drooped; flung back his hair, and clapped palm to mouth in a war-cry.
Then his bow flew from his hand as his arms spread out—spread out as if seeking something upon which to lean. He sank to his knees, chanting the death-song of the Sioux.
"Charley! Charley!" It was a wail.
Not his voice, but another's, answered: "Dallas! Where are you?"
The Indians heard the call. Catching up wounded and dead, they fell back.
Dallas, shielded no longer, yet forgetful of danger and self, ran forward to where Red Moon knelt. Even as she reached him, he could kneel no longer. He toppled sideways, then straightened upon his back.