While Ruth Pemberton gazed in a kind of fondness without fear, the heavy Sharp’s came to the sudden shoulder of Mr. Masterson. The roar of it fell upon her so close and loud that it was like a fog to her senses. Mr. Masterson threw open his gun, and clipped in a second cartridge. The brass shell flirted over his shoulder by the extractor, struck Count Banti’s face. That hero—who had hunted lions by night and tigers on foot—gave a little scream, and then lay mute. “It was this!” said Ruth Pemberton, holding up the empty shell to Mr. Masterson. Mr. Masterson’s bullet had gone through pony and rider as though they were papier-mâché. What life might have been left in the latter was crushed out by the falling pony who smashed chest and ribs beneath his heavy shoulder. The nine other circling bucks gathered about the one who had died. Clustered as they were, there could be no thought of missing, and Mr. Masterson emptied another saddle. With that, the others swooped on the slain and bore them off beyond the hill. As they did so, far away to the right a single Cheyenne came riding; he was yelping like twenty wolves at once, and tossing something and catching it in his hand. The single Cheyenne was he who had followed the craven Mexican, and the thing he tossed and played with was the Mexican’s scalp. When he had joined the others, and they had laid their dead in a safe place, the whole party again came riding—open order—down the long slope towards the fatal buffalo wallow. Mr. Masterson picked up the Winchester and forced cartridges into the magazine until it would hold no more. “They’re going to charge,” said Mr. Masterson, apologising for the Winchester. “It’ll come handy to back up my Sharp’s in a case of quick work. There won’t be time to load, and a Sharp’s is only a single-shot gun, you know.” Ruth Pemberton did not know, and her mind was running on other matters than guns, single-shot or magazine. “They’re going to charge?” she asked. “Yes; but don’t lose your nerve. They’ll make a heap of hubbub, but it’s two for one I stand them off.” The assurance came as coolly as though Mr. Masterson considered the possibilities of a shower, and was confident of the integrity of Ruth Pemberton’s umbrella. “One thing!” said Ruth Pemberton wistfully. “Yes?” said Mr. Masterson, his eye on the Cheyennes, his ear on Ruth Pemberton. “Don’t let them take me! Kill me first!” “I’ve intended to from the beginning,” said Mr. Masterson steadily. “First you, then me! You know the Western saying for an Indian fight: Always save your last shot for yourself!”