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.