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. He went that way--toward Kiowa."

Sergeant Clancey, who was kneeling by the figure in the trail, raised
his hand in salute. "Pop Henderson, lieutenant," he said. "He's shot
through the heart. He's dead."

"He took the money, ten thousand dollars," cried Colonel Patten. "He
wore a red mask and a rubber poncho. And I saw that he had no
stirrups in his stirrup-straps."

Crosby dodged, as though someone had thrown a knife, and then raised
his hand stiffly and heavily.

"Lieutenant Curtis, you will remain here with Colonel Patten," he
ordered. His voice was without emotion. It fell flat and dead.