How the fight started, whether it could have been avoided, and what the town officials had done or were doing, were only matters for surmise.
"There was a fight but I guess the Indians were too many for our fellows," grimly said Floyd, as his horse was led along. He had managed to keep close to Rosemary.
"It looks that way," the girl said. "Oh, Floyd! If we could only get word to our folks or Uncle Henry!"
"I don't see how we can," said Floyd. "When night comes maybe we can break away, but—"
He did not finish. It was a desperate hope as he and Rosemary well knew.
Suddenly, when the centre of the town was reached by the band having taken our friends captive, there was a burst of fire, mingled with shouts of defiance. Out of one of the buildings burst a band of American cowboys and others. They had gathered together to make a stand, and this was their chance.
Several of the Indians fell from their saddles, and others, though wounded, managed to retain their seats. Bullets flew about Rosemary and Floyd, fortunately not hitting them, but coming too close for comfort.
Paz and his followers were evidently taken by surprise, and for a moment did not return the fire. Then, as it increased the Indians turned and began fleeing up the trail they had just descended, taking Rosemary and Floyd with them. Evidently they not only thought there might be danger in making a stand against the intrepid Americans, but perhaps they reasoned that they had captives too valuable to risk losing in another pitched fight.
At any rate Paz gave the orders to retreat, and his men obeyed. Rosemary and Floyd saw what was happening. Helpless, they were carried away into the mountains.
True it was United States territory, but for all the good that did the captives, it might as well have been Mexico. There were no troops or other help at hand.