"
The officers fell apart again, and there was silence over the
prairie, save for the creaking of leather and the beat of the hoofs.
And then, faint and far away, there came the quick crack of a
revolver, another, and then a fusillade. "My God!" gasped Crosby. He
threw himself forwards digging his spurs into his horse, and rode as
though he were trying to escape from his own men.
No one issued an order, no one looked a question; each, officer and
enlisted man, bowed his head and raced to be the first.
The trail was barricaded by two struggling horses and an overturned
buckboard. The rigid figure of a man lay flat upon his back staring
at the moon, another white-haired figure staggered forward from a
rock. "Who goes there?" it demanded.
"United States troops. Is that you, Colonel Patten?"
"Yes."
Colonel Patten's right arm was swinging limply at his side. With his
left hand he clasped his right shoulder. The blood, black in the
moonlight, was oozing between his fingers.
"We were held up," he said. "He shot the driver and the horses. I
fired at him, but he broke my arm. He shot the gun out of my hand.
When he reached for the satchel I tried to beat him off with my left
arm, but he threw me into the road.
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