"Where is Loud Gun?" he asked, his voice like flint.
By this time the trumpeter and some of the men were standing near, a silent group, puzzled, unable to understand what the woman said but able to see that their leader had been deeply stirred. Hector barely realized that they were there.
"Loud Gun?—He is with—the rest of them—the rebels. He is—chief of the band—now. My father—is gone. He rides the ghost-trail. Had he—been—living, his people, my people—they would not—have been—led away—into this—cruel—madness. But—" she repeated, "he rides the ghost-trail. And I—will soon—O, I am happy!—I will soon be with him!"
"You say Loud Gun has been unkind to you?"
Hector's voice was trembling, though he tried hard to control it.
"At first—he loved me. But then—he—tired—of me. But now—all that is over; and I do—not—care."
The words came heavily, painfully, from her lips, like cripples, one by one. The blood from her mouth still trickled down. Hector tried to stop the thickly welling flow from the hole in her chest with his handkerchief but could not.
"Listen, Moon." He steeled himself for the effort. "Tell me—where have they gone?"
She looked at him, striving always to smile. But her eyes were already clouding, her voice and senses failing.
"Will—it—serve you—if I tell?"