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.