show of brilliant equestrianism, surpassing the feats of circus riders.
But a single effective shot into the centre of the column had cleft it as
a rock divides a torrent. It was like the breaking of a water-spout.

The attack, however, had only commenced. The Indians who had swept off to
right and left went scouring along the now motionless train, at a distance
of sixty or eighty yards, rapidly enveloping it with their wild caperings,
keeping in constant motion so as to evade gunshots, threatening with their
lances or discharging arrows, and yelling incessantly. Their main object
so far was undoubtedly to frighten the mules into a stampede and thus
separate the wagons. They were not assaulting; they were watching for
chances.

"Keep your men together, Sergeant," said Thurstane. "I must get those
Mexicans to work."

He trotted deliberately to the other end of the train, ordering each
driver as he passed to move up abreast of the leading wagon, directing the
first to the right, the second to the left, and so on. The result of this
movement would of course be to bring the train into a compact mass and
render it more defensible. The Indians no sooner perceived the advance
than they divined its object and made an effort to prevent it. Thurstane
had scarcely reached the centre of the line of vehicles when a score or so
of yelling horsemen made a caracoling, prancing charge upon him,
accompanying it with a flight of arrows. Our young hero presented his
revolver, but they apparently knew the short range of the weapon, and came
plunging, curveting onward. Matters were growing serious, for an arrow
already stuck in his saddle, and another had passed through his hat.
Suddenly there was a bang, bang of firearms, and two of the savages went
down.

Meyer had observed the danger of his officer, and had ordered Kelly to
fire, blazing away too himself. There was a headlong, hasty scramble to
carry off the fallen warriors, and then the assailants swept back to a
point beyond accurate musket shot. Thurstane reached the rear of the train
unhurt, and found the six Mexican cattle-drivers there in a group,
pointing their rifles at such Indians as made a show of charging, but
otherwise doing nothing which resembled fighting. They were obviously
panic-stricken, one or two of them being of an ashy-yellow, their nearest
possible approach to pallor. There, too, was Coronado, looking not exactly
scared, but irresolute and helpless.

"What does this mean?" Thurstane stormed in Spanish. "Why don't you shoot
the devils?"

"We are reserving our fire," stammered Coronado, half alarmed, half
ashamed.

Thurstane swore briefly, energetically, and to the point. "Damned pretty
fighting!" he went on. "If _we_ had reserved our fire, we should all have
been lanced by this time. Let drive!"

The cattle-drivers carried short rifles, of the then United States
regulation pattern, which old Garcia had somehow contrived to pick up
during the war perhaps buying them of drunken soldiers. Supported by
Thurstane's pugnacious presence and hurried up by his vehement orders,
they began to fire. They were shaky; didn't aim very well; hardly aimed at
all, in fact; blazed away at extraordinary elevations; behaved as men do
who have become demoralized. However, as the pieces had a range of several
hundred yards, the small bullets hissed venomously over the heads of the
Indians, and one of them, by pure accident, brought down a horse. There
was an immediate scattering, a multitudinous glinting of hoofs through the
light dust of the plain, and then a rally in prancing groups, at a safe
distance.

"Hurrah!" shouted Thurstane, cheering the Mexicans. "That's very well. You
see how easy it is. Now don't let them sneak up again; and at the same
time don't waste powder."

Then turning to one who was near him, and who had just reloaded, he said
in a calm, strong, encouraging tone--that voice of the thoroughly good
officer which comes to the help of the shaken soldier like a
reinforcement--"Now, my lad, steadily. Pick out your man; take your time
and aim sure. Do you see him?"

"Si, senor," replied the herdsman. His coolness restored by this steady
utterance and these plain, common-sense directions, he selected a warrior
in helmet-shaped cap, blue shirt, and long boots, brought his rifle slowly
to a level, took sight, and fired. The Indian bent forward, caught the
mane of his plunging pony, hung there for a second or two, and then rolled
to the ground, amid a yell of surprise and dismay from his comrades. There
was a hasty rush to secure the body, and then another sweep backward of
the loose array.

"Good!" called Thurstane, nodding and smiling at the successful marksman.
"That is the way to do it. You are a match for half a dozen of them as
long as you will keep cool."

The besieged travellers could now look about quietly and see how matters
stood with them. The six wagons were by this time drawn up in two ranks of
three each, so as to form a compact mass. As the one which contained the
ladies had been the leader and the others had formed on it to right and
left, it was in the centre of the first rank, and consequently pretty well
protected by its neighbors. The drivers and muleteers had recovered their
self-possession, and were all sitting or standing at their posts, with
their miscellaneous arms ready for action. Not a human being had been hit
as yet, and only three of the mules wounded, none of them seriously. The
Apaches were all around the train, but none of them nearer than two
hundred yards, and doing nothing but canter about and shout to each other.

"Where is Texas Smith?" demanded Thurstane, missing that mighty hunter,
and wondering if he were a coward and had taken refuge in a wagon.

"He went off shutin' an hour ago," explained Phineas Glover. "Reckon he's
astern somewhere."

Glover, by the way, had been useful. In the beginning of the affray he had
brought his mule alongside of the headmost wagon, and there he had done
really valuable service by blazing away alarmingly, though quite
innocuously, at the gallopading enemy.

"It's a bad lookout for Texas," observed the Lieutenant "I shouldn't want
to bet high on his getting back to us."

Coronado looked gloomy, fearing lest his trusted assassin was lost, and
not knowing where he could pick up such another.

"And how are the ladies?" asked Thurstane, turning to Glover.

"Safe 's a bug in a rug," was the reply. "Seen to that little job myself.
Not a bugger in the hull crew been nigh 'em."

Thurstane cantered around to the front of the wagon which contained the
two women, and called, "How are you?"

At the sound of his voice there was a rustle inside, and Clara showed her
face over the shoulder of the driver.

"So you were not hurt?" laughed the young officer. "Ah! that's bully."

With a smile which was almost a boast, she answered, "And I was not very
frightened."

At this, Aunt Maria struggled from between two rolls of bedding into a
sitting posture and ejaculated, "Of course not!"

"Did they hit you?" asked Clara, looking eagerly at Thurstane.

"How brave you are!" he replied, admiring her so much that he did not
notice her question.

"But I do hope it is over," added the girl, poking her head out of the
wagon. "Ah! what is that?"

With this little cry of dismay she pointed at a group of savages who had
gathered between the train and the mouth of the canon ahead of it.

"They are the enemy," said Thurstane. "We may have another little tussle
with them. Now lie down and keep close."

"Acquit yourselves like--men!" exhorted Aunt Maria, dropping back into her
stronghold among the bedding.

Sergeant Meyer now approached Thurstane, touched his cap, and said,
"Leftenant, here is brifate Sweeny who has not fired his beece once. I
cannot make him fire."

"How is that, Sweeny?" demanded the officer, putting on the proper
grimness. "Why haven't you fired when you were ordered?"

Sweeny was a little wizened shaving of an Irishman. He was not only quite
short, but very slender and very lean. He had a curious teetering gait,
and he took ridiculously short steps in marching, as if he were a monkey
who had not learned to feel at ease on his hind legs. His small, wilted,
wrinkled face, and his expression of mingled simplicity and shrewdness,
were also monkey-like. At Thurstane's reprimand he trotted close up to him
with exactly the air of a circus Jocko who expects a whipping, but who
hopes to escape it by grinning.

"Why haven't you fired?" repeated his commander.

"Liftinint, I dasn't," answered Sweeny, in the rapid, jerking, almost
inarticulate jabber which was his usual speech.

Now it is not an uncommon thing for recruits to dread to discharge their
arms in battle. They have a vague idea that, if they bang away, they will
attract the notice of some antagonist who will immediately single them out
for retaliation.

"Are you afraid anybody will hit you?" asked Thurstane.

"No, I ain't, Liftinint," jabbered Sweeny. "I ain't afeard av them niggers
a bit. They may shoot their bow arrays at me all day if they want to. I'm
afeard of me gun, Liftinint. I fired it wonst, an' it kicked me to
blazes."

"Come, come! That won't do. Level it now. Pick out your man. Aim. Fire."

Thus constrained, Sweeny brought his piece down to an inclination of
forty-five degrees, shut his eyes, pulled trigger, and sent a ball clean
over the most distant Apaches. The recoil staggered him, but he recovered
himself without going over, and instantly roared out a horse-laugh.

"Ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "That time I reckon I fetched won av 'em."

"Sweeny," said Thurstane, "you must have hit either the sun or the moon, I
don't know which."

Sweeny looked discomfited; the next breath he bethought himself of a
saving joke: "Liftinint, it 'ud sarve erry won av 'em right;" then another
neigh of laughter.

"I ain't afeard av the ball," he hastened to asseverate; "it's the kick av
it that murthers me. Liftinint, why don't they put the britch to the other
end av the gun? They do in the owld counthry."

"Load your beece," ordered Sergeant Meyer, "and go to your bost again, to
the left of Shupert."

The fact of Sweeny's opening fire did not cause a resumption of the close
fighting. Quiet still continued, and the leaders of the expedition took
advantage of it to discuss their situation, while the Indians gathered
into little groups and seemed also to be holding council.

"There are over a hundred warriors," said Thurstane.

"Apaches," added one of the Mexican herdsmen.

"What band?"

"Manga Colorada or Delgadito."

"I supposed they were in Bernalillo."

"That was three weeks ago," put in Coronado.

He was in profound thought. These fellows, who had agreed to harry
Bernalillo, and who had for a time carried out their bargain, why had they
come to intercept him in the Moqui country, a hundred and twenty miles
away? Did they want to extort more money, or were they ignorant that this
was his train? And, supposing he should make himself known to them, would
they spare him personally and such others as he might wish to save, while
massacring the rest of the party? It would be a bold step; he could not at
once decide upon it; he was pondering it.

We must do full justice to Coronado's coolness and readiness. This
atrocious idea had occurred to him the instant he heard the charging yell
of the Apaches; and it had done far more than any weakness of nerves to
paralyze his fighting ability. He had thought, "Let them kill the Yankees;
then I will proclaim myself and save _her_; then she will be mine." And
because of these thoughts he had stood irresolute, aiming without firing,
and bidding his Mexicans do the same. The result was that six good shots
and superb horsemen, who were capable of making a gallant fight under
worthy leadership, had become demoralized, and, but for the advent of
Thurstane, might have been massacred like sheep.

Now that three or four Apaches had fallen, Coronado had less hope of
making his arrangement. He considered the matter carefully and
judiciously, but at last he decided that he could not trust the vindictive
devils, and he turned his mind strenuously toward resistance. Although not
pugnacious, he had plenty of the desperate courage of necessity, and his
dusky black eyes were very resolute as he said to Thurstane, "Lieutenant,
we trust to you."

The young veteran had already made up his mind as to what must be done.

"We will move on," he said. "We can't camp here, in an open plain, without
grass or water. We must get into the canon so as to have our flanks
protected. I want the wagons to advance in double file so as to shorten
the train. Two of my men in front and two in rear; three of your herdsmen
on one flank and three on the other; Captain Glover alongside the ladies,
and you and I everywhere; that's the programme. If we are all steady, we
can do it, sure."

"They are collecting ahead to stop us," observed Coronado.

"Good!" said Thurstane. "All I want is to have them get in a heap. It is
this attacking on all sides which is dangerous. Suppose you give your
drivers and muleteers a sharp lecture. Tell them they must fight if the
Indians charge, and not skulk inside and under the wagons. Tell them we
are going to shoot the first man who skulks. Pitch into them heavy. It's a
devilish shame that a dozen tolerably well-armed men should be so
helpless. It's enough to justify the old woman's contempt for our sex."

Coronado rode from wagon to wagon, delivering his reproofs, threats, and
instructions in the plainest kind of Spanish. At the signal to march, the
drivers must file off two abreast, commencing on the right, and move at
the fastest trot of the mules toward the canon. If any scoundrel skulked,
quitted his post, or failed to fight, he would be pistolled instanter by
him, Coronado _sangre de Dios_, etc.!

While he was addressing Aunt Maria's coachman, that level-headed lady
called out, "Mr. Coronado, your very voice is cheering."

"Mrs. Stanley, you are an example of heroism to our sex," replied the
Mexican, with an ironical grin.

"What a brave, noble, intelligent man?" thought Aunt Maria. "If they were
only all like him!"

This business took up five minutes. Coronado had just finished his round
when a loud yell was raised by the Apaches, and twenty or thirty of them
started at full speed down the trail by which the caravan had come.
Looking for the cause of this stampede, the emigrants beheld, nearly half
a mile away, a single horseman rushing to encounter a score. It was Texas
Smith, making an apparently hopeless rush to burst through the environment
of Parthians and reach the train.

"Shall we make a sally to save him?" demanded Coronado, glancing at
Thurstane.

The officer hesitated; to divide his small army would be perilous; the
Apaches would attack on all sides and with advantage.

But the sight of one man so overmatched was too much for him, and with a
great throb of chivalrous blood in his heart, he shouted, "Charge!"




CHAPTER XI.


An hour before the attack Texas Smith had ridden off to stalk a deer; but
the animal being in good racing condition in consequence of the thin fare
of this sterile region, the hunting bout had miscarried; and our desperado
was returning unladen toward the train when he heard the distant charging
yell of the Apaches.

Scattered over the plateau which he was traversing, there were a few
thickets of mesquite, with here and there a fantastic butte of sandstone.
By dodging from one of these covers to another, he arrived undiscovered at
a point whence he could see the caravan and the curveting melee which
surrounded it. He was nearly half a mile from his comrades and over a
quarter of a mile from his nearest enemies.

What should he do? If he made a rush, he would probably be overpowered and
either killed instantly or carried off for torture. If he waited until
night for a chance to sneak into camp, the wandering redskins would be
pretty apt to surprise him in the darkness, and there would be small
chance indeed of escaping with his hair. It was a nasty situation; but
Texas, accustomed to perils, was as brave as he was wicked; and he looked
his darkling fate in the face with admirable coolness and intelligence.
His decision was to wait a favorable moment, and when it came, charge for
life.

When he perceived that the mass of the Indians had gathered on the trail
between the wagons and the canon, he concluded that his chance had
arrived; and with teeth grimly set, rifle balanced across his saddle-bow,
revolver slung to his wrist, he started in silence and at full speed on
his almost hopeless rush. If you will cease to consider the man as a
modern bushwhacker, and invest him temporarily with the character,
ennobled by time, of a borderer of the Scottish marches, you will be able
to feel some sympathy for him in his audacious enterprise.

He was mounted on an American horse, a half-blood gray, large-boned and
powerful, who could probably have traversed the half-mile in a minute had
there been no impediment, and who was able to floor with a single shock
two or three of the little animals of the Apaches. He was a fine spectacle
as he thundered alone across the plain, upright and easy in his seat,
balancing his heavy rifle as if it were a rattan, his dark and cruel face
settled for fight and his fierce black eyes blazing.

Only a minute's ride, but that minute life or death. As he had expected,
the Apaches discovered him almost as soon as he left the cover of his
butte, and all the outlying members of the horde swarmed toward him with a
yell, brandishing their spears and getting ready their bows as they rode.
It would clearly be impossible for him to cut his way through thirty
warriors unless he received assistance from the train. Would it come? His
evil conscience told him, without the least reason, that Thurstane would
not help. But from Coronado, whose life he had saved and whose evil work
he had undertaken to do--from this man, "greaser" as he was, he did expect
a sally. If it did not come, and if he should escape by some rare chance,
he, Texas Smith, would murder the Mexican the first time he found him
alone, so help him God!

While he thought and cursed he flew. But his goal was still five hundred
yards away, and the nearest redskins were within two hundred yards, when
he saw a rescuing charge shoot out from the wagons. Coronado led it. In
this foxy nature the wolf was not wanting, and under strong impulse he
could be somewhat of a Pizarro. He had no starts of humanity nor of real
chivalry, but he had family pride and personal vanity, and he was capable
of the fighting fury. When Thurstane had given the word to advance,
Coronado had put himself forward gallantly.

"Stay here," he said to the officer; "guard the train with your infantry.
I am a caballero, and I will do a caballero's work," he added, rising
proudly in his stirrups. "Come on, you villains!" was his order to the six
Mexicans.

All abreast, spread out like a skirmish line, the seven horsemen clattered
over the plain, making for the point where Texas Smith was about to plunge
among the whirling and caracoling Apaches.

Now came the crisis of the day. The moment the sixty or seventy Apaches
near the mouth of the canon saw Coronado set out on his charge, they
raised a yell of joy over the error of the emigrants in dividing their
forces, and plunged straight at the wagons. In half a minute two wild,
irregular, and yet desperate combats were raging.

Texas Smith had begun his battle while Coronado was still a quarter of a
mile away. Aiming his rifle at an Apache who was riding directly upon him,
instead of dodging and wheeling in the usual fashion of these cautious
fighters, he sent the audacious fellow out of his saddle with a
bullet-hole through the lungs. But this was no salvation; the dreaded
long-range firearm was now empty; the savages circled nearer and began to
use their arrows. Texas let his rifle hang from the pommel and presented
his revolver. But the bowshots were more than its match. It could not be
trusted to do execution at forty yards, and at that distance the Indian
shafts are deadly. Already several had hissed close by him, one had gashed
the forehead of his horse, and another had pierced his clothing.

All that Texas wanted, however, was time. If he could pass a half minute
without a disabling wound, he would have help. He retreated a little, or
rather he edged away toward the right, wheeling and curveting after the
manner of the Apaches, in order to present an unsteady mark for their
archery. To keep them at a distance he fired one barrel of his revolver,
though without effect. Meantime he dodged incessantly, now throwing
himself forward and backward in the saddle, now hanging over the side of
his horse and clinging to his neck. It was hard and perilous work, but he
was gaining seconds, and every second was priceless. Notwithstanding his
extreme peril, he calculated his chances with perfect coolness and with a
sagacity which was admirable.

But this intelligent savage had to do with savages as clever as himself.
The Apaches saw Coronado coming up on their rear, and they knew that they
must make short work of the hunter, or must let him escape. While a score
or so faced about to meet the Mexicans, a dozen charged with screeches and
brandished lances upon the Texan. Now came a hand-to-hand struggle which
looked as if it must end in the death of Smith and perhaps of several of
his assailants. But cavalry fights are notoriously bloodless in comparison
to their apparent fury; the violent and perpetual movement of the
combatants deranges aim and renders most of the blows futile; shots are
fired at a yard distance without hitting, and strokes are delivered which
only wound the air.

One spear stuck in Smith's saddle; another pierced his jacket-sleeve and
tore its way out; only one of the sharp, quickly-delivered points drew
blood. He felt a slight pain in his side, and he found afterward that a
lance-head had raked one of his ribs, tearing up the skin and scraping the
bone for four or five inches. Meantime he shot a warrior through the head,
sent another off with a hole in the shoulder, and fired one barrel without
effect. He had but a single charge left (saving this for himself in the
last extremity), when he burst through the prancing throng of screeching,
thrusting ragamuffins, and reached the side of Coronado.

Here another hurly-burly of rearing and plunging combat awaited him.
Coronado, charging as an old Castilian hidalgo might have charged upon the
Moors, had plunged directly into the midst of the Apaches who awaited him,
giving them little time to use their arrows, and at first receiving no
damage. The six rifles of his Mexicans sent two Apaches out of their
saddles, and then came a capering, plunging joust of lances, both parties
using the same weapon. Coronado alone had sabre and revolver; and he
handled them both with beautiful coolness and dexterity; he rode, too, as
well as the best of all these other centaurs. His superb horse whirled and
reared under the guidance of a touch of the knees, while the rider plied
firearm with one hand and sharply-ground blade with the other. Thurstane,
an infantryman, and only a fair equestrian, would not have been half so
effective in this combat of caballeros.

Coronado's first bullet knocked a villainous-looking tatterdemalion clean
into the happy hunting grounds. Then came a lance thrust; he parried it
with his sabre and plunged within range of the point; there was a sharp,
snake-like hiss of the light, curved blade; down went Apache number two.
At this rate, providing there were no interruptions, he could finish the
whole twenty. He went at his job with a handy adroitness which was almost
scientific, it was so much like surgery, like dissection. His mind was
bent, with a sort of preternatural calmness and cleverness, upon the
business of parrying lance thrusts, aiming his revolver, and delivering
sabre cuts. It was a species of fighting intellection, at once prudent and
destructive. It was not the headlong, reckless, pugnacious rage of the old
Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian berserker. It was the practical, ready,
rational furor of the Latin race.

Presently he saw that two of his rancheros had been lanced, and that there
were but four left. A thrill of alarm, a commencement of panic, a desire
to save himself at all hazards, crisped his heart and half paralyzed his
energy. Remembering with perfect distinctness that four of his barrels
were empty, he would perhaps have tried to retreat at the risk of being
speared in the back, had he not at this critical moment been joined by
Texas Smith.

That instinctive, ferocious, and tireless fighter, while seeming to be
merely circling and curveting among his assailants, contrived to recharge
two barrels of his revolver, and was once more ready for business. Down
went one Apache; then the horse of another fell to reeling and crouching
in a sickly way; then a charge of half a dozen broke to right and left in
irresolute prancings. At sight of this friendly work Coronado drew a fresh
breath of courage, and executed his greatest feat yet of horsemanship and
swordsmanship. Spurring after and then past one of the wheeling braves, he
swept his sabre across the fellow's bare throat with a drawing stroke, and
half detached the scowling, furious, frightened head from the body.

There was a wide space of open ground before him immediately. The Apaches
know nothing of sabre work; not one of those present had ever before seen
such a blow or such an effect; they were not only panic-stricken, but
horror-stricken. For one moment, right between the staring antagonists, a
bloody corpse sat upright on a rearing horse, with its head fallen on one
shoulder and hanging by a gory muscle. The next moment it wilted, rolled
downward with outstretched arms, and collapsed upon the gravel, an inert
mass.

Texas Smith uttered a loud scream of tigerish delight. He had never, in
all his pugnacious and sanguinary life, looked upon anything so
fascinating. It seemed to him as if _his_ heaven--the savage Walhalla of
his Saxon or Danish berserker race--were opened before him. In his ecstasy
he waved his dirty, long fingers toward Coronado, and shouted, "Bully for
you, old hoss!"

But he had self-possession enough, now that his hand was free for an
instant from close battle, to reload his rifle and revolver. The four
rancheros who still retained their saddles mechanically and hurriedly
followed his example. The contest here was over; the Apaches knew that
bullets would soon be humming about their ears, and they dreaded them;
there was a retreat, and this retreat was a run of an eighth of a mile.

"Hurrah for the waggins!" shouted Texas, and dashed away toward the train.
Coronado stared; his heart sank within him; the train was surrounded by a
mob of prancing savages; there was more fighting to be done when he had
already done his best. But not knowing where else to go, he followed his
leader toward this new battle, loading his revolver as he rode, and
wishing that he were in Santa Fe, or anywhere in peace.

We must go back a little. As already stated, the main body of the Apaches
had perceived the error of the emigrants in separating, and had promptly
availed themselves of it to charge upon the train. To attack it there were
seventy ferocious and skilful warriors; to defend it there were twelve
timorous muleteers and drivers, four soldiers, and Ralph.

"Fall back!" shouted the Lieutenant to his regulars when he saw the
equestrian avalanche coming. "Each man take a wagon and hold it."

The order was obeyed in a hurry. The Apaches, heartened by what they
supposed to be a panic, swarmed along at increased speed, and gave out
their most diabolical screeches, hoping no doubt to scare men into
helplessness, and beasts into a stampede. But the train was an immovable
fortress, and the fortress was well garrisoned. Although the mules winced
and plunged a good deal, the drivers succeeded in holding them to their
places, and the double column of carriages, three in each rank, preserved
its formation. In every vehicle there was a muleteer, with hands free for
fighting, bearing something or other in the shape of a firelock, and
inspired with what courage there is in desperation. The four flankers,
necessarily the most exposed to assault, had each a United States regular,
with musket, bayonet, and forty rounds of buck and ball. In front of the
phalanx, directly before the wagon which contained the two ladies, sat as
brave an officer as there was in the American army.

The Apaches had also committed their tactical blunder. They should all
have followed Coronado, made sure of destroying him and his Mexicans, and
then attacked the train. But either there was no sagacious military spirit
among them, or the love of plunder was too much for judgment and
authority, and so down they came on the wagons.

As the swarthy swarm approached, it spread out until it covered the front
of the train and overlapped its flanks, ready to sweep completely around
it and fasten upon any point which should seem feebly or timorously
defended. The first man endangered was the lonely officer who sat his
horse in front of the line of kicking and plunging mules. Fortunately for
him, he now had a weapon of longer range than his revolver; he had
remembered that in one of the wagons was stored a peculiar rifle belonging
to Coronado; he had just had time to drag it out and strap its
cartridge-box around his waist.

He levelled at the centre of the clattering, yelling column. It
fluctuated; the warriors who were there did not like to be aimed at; they
began to zigzag, caracole, and diverge to right or left; several halted
and commenced using their bows. At one of these archers, whose arrow
already trembled on the string, Thurstane let fly, sending him out of the
saddle. Then he felt a quick, sharp pain in his left arm, and perceived
that a shaft had passed clean through it.

There is this good thing about the arrow, that it has not weight enough to
break bones, nor tearing power enough to necessarily paralyze muscle.
Thurstane could still manage a revolver with his wounded arm, while his
right was good for almost any amount of slashing work. Letting the rifle
drop and swing from the pommel, he met the charge of two grinning and
scowling lancers. One thrust he parried with his sabre; from the other he
saved his neck by stooping; but it drove through his coat collar, and
nearly unseated him. For a moment our bleeding and hampered young
gladiator seemed to be in a bad way. But he was strong; he braced himself
in his stirrups, and he made use of both his hands. The Indian whose spear
was still free caught a bullet through the shoulder, dropped his weapon,
and circled away yelling. Then Thurstane plunged at the other, reared his
tall horse over him, broke the lance-shaft with a violent twist, and swung
his long cavalry sabre. It was in vain that the Apache crouched, spurred,
and skedaddled; he got away alive, but it was with a long bloody gash down
his naked back; the last seen of him he was going at full speed, holding
by his pony's mane. The Lieutenant remained master of the whole front of
the caravan.

Meantime there was a busy popping along the flankers and through the
hinder openings in the second line of wagons. The Indians skurried,
wheeled, pranced, and yelled, let fly their arrows from a distance, dashed
up here and there with their lances, and as quickly retreated before the
threatening muzzles. The muleteers, encouraged by the presence of the
soldiers, behaved with respectable firmness and blazed away rapidly,
though not effectively. The regulars reserved their fire for close
quarters, and then delivered it to bloody purpose.

Around Sweeny, who garrisoned the left-hand wagon of the rearmost line,
the fight was particularly noisy. The Apaches saw that he was little, and
perhaps they saw that he was afraid of his gun. They went for him; they
were after him with their sharpest sticks; they counted on Sweeny. The
speck of a man sat on the front seat of the wagon, outside of the driver,
and fully exposed to the tribulation. He was in a state of the highest
Paddy excitement. He grinned and bounced like a caravan of monkeys. But he
was not much scared; he was mainly in a furious rage. Pointing his musket
first at one and then at another, he returned yell for yell, and was in
fact abusive.

"Oh, fire yer bow-arreys!" he screamed. "Ye can't hit the side av a
waggin. Ah, ye bloody, murtherin' nagers! go 'way wid yer long poles. I'd
fight a hundred av the loikes av ye wid ownly a shillelah."

One audacious thrust of a lance he parried very dexterously with his
bayonet, at the same time screeching defiantly and scornfully in the face
of his hideous assailant. But this fellow's impudent approach was too much
to be endured, and Sweeny proceeded at once to teach him to keep at a more
civil distance.

"Oh, ye pokin' blaggard!" he shouted, and actually let drive with his
musket. The ball missed, but by pure blundering one of the buck-shot took
effect, and the brave retreated out of the melee with a sensation as if
his head had been split. Some time later he was discovered sitting up
doggedly on a rock, while a comrade was trying to dig the buckshot out of
his thick skull with an arrow-point.

"I'll tache 'em to moind their bizniss," grinned Sweeny triumphantly, as
he reloaded. "The nasty, hootin' nagers! They've no rights near a white
man, anyhow."

On the whole, the attack lingered. The Apaches had done some damage. One
driver had been lanced mortally. One muleteer had been shot through the
heart with an arrow. Another arrow had scraped Shubert's ankle. Another,
directed by the whimsical genius of accident, had gone clean through the
drooping cartilage of Phineas Glover's long nose, as if to prepare him for
the sporting of jewelled decorations. Two mules were dead, and several
wounded. The sides of the wagons bristled with shafts, and their canvas
tops were pierced with fine holes. But, on the other hand, the Apaches had
lost a dozen horses, three or four warriors killed, and seven or eight
wounded.

Such was the condition of affairs around the train when Coronado, Texas
Smith, and the four surviving herdsmen came storming back to it.




CHAPTER XII.


The Apaches were discouraged by the immovability of the train, and by the
steady and deadly resistance of its defenders. From first to last some
twenty-five or twenty-seven of their warriors had been hit, of whom
probably one third were killed or mortally wounded.

At the approach of Coronado those who were around the wagons swept away in
a panic, and never paused in their flight until they were a good half mile
distant. They carried off, however, every man, whether dead or injured,
except one alone. A few rods from the train lay a mere boy, certainly not
over fifteen years old, his forehead gashed by a bullet, and life
apparently extinct. There was nothing strange in the fact of so young a
lad taking part in battle, for the military age among the Indians is from
twelve to thirty-six, and one third of their fighters are children.

"What did they leave that fellow for?" said Coronado in surprise, riding
up to the senseless figure.

"I'll fix him," volunteered Texas Smith, dismounting and drawing his
hunting knife. "Reckon he hain't been squarely finished."

"Stop!" ordered Coronado. "He is not an Apache. He is some pueblo Indian.
See how much he is hurt."

"Skull ain't broke," replied Texas, fingering the wound as roughly as if
it had been in the flesh of a beast. "Reckon he'll flop round. May do
mischief, if we don't fix him."

Anxious to stick his knife into the defenceless young throat, he
nevertheless controlled his sentiments and looked up for instructions.
Since the splendid decapitation which Coronado had performed, Texas
respected him as he had never heretofore hoped to respect a "greaser."

"Perhaps we can get information out of him," said Coronado. "Suppose you
lay him in a wagon."

Meanwhile preparations had been made for an advance. The four dead or