But now the band was coming back toward Dallas, on their way to the Throat. Their purpose was thwarted. Before Dallas was reached, a man blocked the narrow passage, and two revolvers, barking a staccato, spread panic among them. They turned to the walls, looking for a place to scale. From there came tramping and shouts, and they saw, over them, at either side, a line of downward-pointing guns!
Huddling together, the centre of a complete surround, wounded and unwounded cast aside their bows and flung up their hands in the peace sign.
"Give 'em hell, boys!" screamed a trooper.
But the trumpet interfered.
Close to the Throat was a group that had neither eyes nor ears for the capture. Here was the warrior, Red Moon, calm-faced, bearing his agony bravely, choking back even a murmur of pain. Over him were Lounsbury and Dallas, bent for a final look and word.
"Dear old fellow," murmured Lounsbury. "You gave 'em a good fight to-day. You saved her."
The surgeon was beside them now, hastily examining. The shaft was not in the wound; it had fallen. But the poisoned barb remained. He shook his head.
"No use, John," he whispered, and tiptoed away.
Lounsbury leaned farther down. "Charley," he said, "you're going now, old man. Say good-by to us."
The Indian moved one hand feebly.