"[...]moments they raced silently neck by neck, and then Curtis again leaned from his saddle. "I hope he HAS turned back to the post," he said. "Look at the men how they're keeping watch for him. They're scouts, all of them." "What if they are?" returned Crosby, easily. "Ranson's in uniform—out for a moonlight canter. You can bet a million dollars he didn't wear his red mask long after he heard us coming." "I suppose he'll think we've followed to spoil his fun. You know you said we would." "Yes, he was going to shoot us," laughed Crosby. "I wonder why he packs a gun. It's a silly thing to do." 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[...]".