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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 mêlée 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.