Now he shot, swift and unerringly. Here one flattened; there, another; a third broke his jaw upon a stone. Till from their midst flew the missile of Big Ox, hard-driven, straight. Quivering, it buried its deadly point in Red Moon's breast. Deafening whoops echoed in the narrow canyon, drowning the hoof-beats of a nearing horse. Red Moon answered them. He was swaying to and fro, like a cypress limb in a great wind. He lifted his face to the sky until his crimson scalp-feather drooped; flung back his hair, and clapped palm to mouth in a war-cry. Then his bow flew from his hand as his arms spread out--spread out as if seeking something upon which to lean. He sank to his knees, chanting the death-song of the Sioux. "Charley! Charley!" It was a wail. Not his voice, but another's, answered: "Dallas! Where are you?" The Indians heard the call. Catching up wounded and dead, they fell back. Dallas, shielded no longer, yet forgetful of danger and self, ran forward to where Red Moon knelt. Even as she reached him, he could kneel no longer. He toppled sideways, then straightened upon his back. But now the band was coming back toward Dallas, on their way to the Throat. Their purpose was thwarted. Before Dallas was reached, a man blocked the narrow passage, and two revolvers, barking a staccato, spread panic among them. They turned to the walls, looking for a place to scale. From there came tramping and shouts, and they saw, over them, at either side, a line of downward-pointing guns! Huddling together, the centre of a complete surround, wounded and unwounded cast aside their bows and flung up their hands in the peace sign. "Give 'em hell, boys!" screamed a trooper. But the trumpet interfered. Close to the Throat was a group that had neither eyes nor ears for the capture. Here was the warrior, Red Moon, calm-faced, bearing his agony bravely, choking back even a murmur of pain. Over him were Lounsbury and Dallas, bent for a final look and word. "Dear old fellow," murmured Lounsbury. "You gave 'em a good fight to-day. You saved her." The surgeon was beside them now, hastily examining. The shaft was not in the wound; it had fallen. But the poisoned barb remained. He shook his head. "No use, John," he whispered, and tiptoed away. Lounsbury leaned farther down. "Charley," he said, "you're going now, old man. Say good-by to us." The Indian moved one hand feebly. Lounsbury understood. He lifted and shook it gently. "Brave Red Moon," he said. The savagery was all gone from the Indian's eyes; they were wonderfully soft and un-Indian in their expression. He seemed, all at once, to be thinking of something far off. And his look was adoring. Dallas could not speak to him, but she, too, shook him gently by the hand. He settled his head upon Lounsbury's arm, as a child might have done. Then he looked up at Dallas. "Friend--friend," he whispered softly, smiled, and with the touch of the sun on his upturned face, he slept. CHAPTER XL