A little to one side of The Squaw, a gun spoke--right into their midst. A brave screamed, catching at his thigh. The others wavered and fell back beyond rifle reach, taking him with them. The stooping figure in squaw's dress signed once more for single combat. Lame Foot addressed his brothers. "We delay too long," he cautioned. "Standing Buffalo, go forward and slay the she-skunk, and let us hasten." Standing Buffalo waved his bow aloft. "I do so," he promised. "But you, Medicine-Giver, must hold me clean of shame for fighting a squaw!" Then, to the outcast, "Come out, coffee-cooler, and die." He halved the distance between him and the Throat. Squaw Charley approached him watchfully, setting a shaft in place. His face seemed all eyes--eyes burning with a fierce joy. Standing Buffalo fitted an arrow. Both raised their bows. Behind the chief came calls of derision and execration. Behind the outcast came a voice, clear and steady: "Careful, Charley, _careful_." To and fro, the contestants were stealing, noiselessly, on the alert, each striving to get the other in a favourable light. A minute, another--then Standing Buffalo bent his knees, drew and shot. But the arrow veered a trifle from its intended course. The Squaw drew. The cord sang. The shaft whistled to its mark. It drove the chief backward a few paces like a wounded buck. Then, stopping himself with effort, he lurched forward again. As he came, he raised his bow and sent a second arrow that cut the bushes on the canyon side. The shaft was his last. His face went suddenly livid, his eyeballs started; drivelling, he clutched at the air--tipped down to his hands--touched--let go his weapon--half-rose--pivoted on a heel, and slipped in a heap to the stones. A wordless cry broke from the lips of The Squaw. He sped across the coulee-bottom to the side of the dead chief. There he struck the fallen man a blow upon the bare knee, snatched from his head an eagle feather, daubed it across the flowing wound, and thrust it dripping red into his own hair. Then, as he had not done in years, he straightened. Then he cast from him the foul rags of his squaw's dress. And in clout and the colours of death, he stood forth--a warrior! "I count a coup--Red Moon!" he cried. Howls--from a watching band that had been struck dumb. "A coup, I--Red Moon. Come on, you dogs--you that called me dog. Come on, you squaws that called me squaw. Come on, and a warrior will fight you, one by one!" Before him, more howls, and a bluster of Uncapapa. Behind the voice again: "Charley! Charley!" And now Red Moon leaped back to resume his stand. With his turning, the band drew after, sending a shower of arrows. At the Throat he faced them again. "Braves!" he laughed mockingly. "_Dogs_--that fight like dogs, a pack against one!"