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 Fe, 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.