Kit Carey, a soldier of the Seventh, was at bay, and that meant that there would be no weakening on his part.
Still he did not fire. He simply stood with revolvers ready, fingers on trigger, fearless, and not to be beaten back.
The Sioux were unprepared for the fight.
Had one man stopped there to fight them, or were there others ambushed among the rocks?
So quickly had those in advance drawn up their ponies that several went down, and those pressing on behind fell over them, until it became a mass of struggling warriors and mustangs.
Quickly the braves were upon their feet, neither hurt nor bruised by the fall, and many sprang back to cover over the ridge.
But Kit Carey had not pulled trigger, and by one of those strange circumstances wholly unaccountable, not a warrior had fired either.
There was a pony with a broken leg lying upon the trail, a feather head-dress and a Winchester rifle, but that was all.
What the result would have been was hard to tell, had not the young officer quickly taken advantage of the lull to call out in the Sioux tongue, which he spoke perfectly:
"Why are my red brothers seeking to kill one who has been their friend in times of peace, if their foe in times of war?"