In the furious struggle that resulted, only the intervening bodies of the nearest Indians prevented the policemen from being shot. To hang on to Wild Horse and to beat their assailants off without drawing a weapon—these two thoughts occupied Hector's mind exclusively. He could trust his men—through it all, they clung to Wild Horse like grim death. Meanwhile, all three were knocked down a dozen times, trampled on, beaten with rifles, bitten, throttled, kicked. When opportunity offered, Hector gathered his failing breath and bellowed for The Gopher.
"Give us Wild Horse!" yelled the Indians, pulling and dragging at the policemen. "Let him go!"
"He is our prisoner," answered Hector. "Where is The Gopher?"
So, like a football scrum, the three undaunted redcoats carried the crowd with them to the horses. The mob raved on. The crash of their carbines pierced the uproar.
"Put up your gun, will you!" Hector bawled, as the constable in charge of the horses, a young fellow and inexperienced, drew his revolver.
Then suddenly, at this crisis, came comparative quiet and The Gopher pushed his way forward.
"Where have you been?" Hector demanded. "What do you mean by allowing this to go on?"
The Gopher pretended not to hear. Instead, he bent his energies towards quelling the riot. Presently Hector found himself beside his horses, the prisoner and escort with him, the crowd, visibly subdued, falling back with lowered rifles and the shamefaced Gopher at his side.
"They know they've done a serious thing," Hector thought.
His troubles were obviously over. What plain men call sheer 'guts' had carried the day, as they so often do—as, with savages, they always do.