“Well done, Frank!” I called.

We ran forward to capture the young Navajo, but he quickly disappeared behind a large rock and was seen no more.  Returning to the main brook with Chiquita, we tied the horses to the willows and began a search for Vic.  I called her by all the pet names to which she was accustomed, but received no response.  I searched over as great a distance as I dared, with a consciousness that a band of Navajos was not far distant.

Reluctantly abandoning our search, we were preparing to return to the train and escort when we descried a large war-party of Indians riding towards us from the direction of the cienaga.  It was at once evident they saw us, for, raising a terrific war-whoop, their irregular mass broke for us in a furious charge.

Death certainly awaited us if captured, and this thought prompted us to leave our exposed position instantly.  Leading Chiquita, and telling Frank to follow, I dashed down the stream in the direction of the Fort Wingate road.

As we flew along, feeling positive that the Indians would overtake us, I eagerly surveyed the rocky wall on our left, hoping to find a break in which we could shelter ourselves and hold the enemy in check until our friends arrived.  But no opening appeared, and it seemed impossible for us to reach Laguna alive.

On we went into the dense bushes, a hail of bullets and a rush of arrows about our ears.  But at this moment the clear notes of a cavalry trumpet sounded “deploy,” and the California cavalry crashed through the willows and we were saved.  They broke into a skirmish-line behind us, but only a few shots were fired and the Navajos were gone.

Being an escort, we could not delay for further operations against the enemy.  Our duty was to return at once to the train.  Frank and I were both uninjured, but a bullet had raised the chevron on the boy’s sleeve, and another had shattered the ivory hilt of his revolver.

The volunteers dismounted for a rest, and I took the opportunity to make a further search for Vic, my faithful companion and friend.  Leaving my horse with Frank, I started towards the place where I had last seen her.

As I descended a shallow ravine to the willow-clad brook I came upon an unexpected sight, and paused to witness it.  On his knees, close to the water, his back towards me, was Corporal Henry.  Extended at his left side was Vic, held closely under his left arm, her plumy tail hanging dejectedly in my direction.  An occasional dispirited wag showed that she appreciated the kindness being shown her.  The boy was evidently busy at something that elicited from the animal, every now and then, faint cries of pain.  I heard something snap, and saw him lay two parts of an arrow on the ground to his right; then he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the brook, and apparently washed a wound.

All the time the boy could be heard addressing his patient in soothing tones, occasionally leaning his face against her head caressingly.  “Poor little Vicky!  Nice, brave doggie!  There, there; I will not hurt you more than I can help.  They can’t shoot you again, girlie, for lots of your friends are here now.  You shall ride back to the train on Chiquita with me.  We’ll own Chiquita together after this.”