University of Virginia Library

11. 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 mêlée 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 darking 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 cañon, 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 fary.
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 cañon 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
outstreched 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 Fé, 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 Sweeney, 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 Sweeney. 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
Sweeney 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 mélée 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 Sweeney 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.