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!”