“I see they all have muskets,” commented Bartlett. “That doesn’t look promising. We must make as big a show as we can. Here you, Jim; you must pretend to be mending the waggon, and we others will stand by and look as innocent as we can—but with guns and pistols ready.”
The negro’s courage was not remarkable, and this was a very satisfactory means of keeping him out of 223 the way, for he would be perfectly happy under the waggon; the teamsters, on the other hand, were men who had been through the recent war, and cared no more for Indians than they did for Mexicans. They and Bartlett picked up their guns, taking care to hold them as unconcernedly and inoffensively as possible; but at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the horsemen, and prepared to fire the moment they saw any of them inclined to take a preliminary shot at them by way of greeting.
Perhaps this attitude disconcerted the redskins; perhaps they had had no evil intentions from the beginning; at any rate, they rode up harmlessly enough, asked what was the matter, and offered to act as guides if the travellers would give them a little powder and tobacco. While the teamsters betook themselves to the repairs, Bartlett talked with the Apaches, questioned them about the way, and told them smoothly but decisively that he could not part with any ammunition, though he would give tobacco and some scarlet cloth. The cloth was received rapturously, and, as soon as the waggon was mended, the procession moved on, the Apaches proving very satisfactory and friendly guides.
At parting, Bartlett gave the chief—who, by the way, called himself “Mangus Colorado”—an old overcoat, and his delight, his pride, and his antics forthwith convulsed the beholders. Months afterwards, while scouring the valley of the Rio Grande with Captain Buford and his dragoons, who were hunting for Indian horse-thieves, the Commissioner came across Mangus again; he was still wearing the 224 overcoat, though it was a stifling day, and though he had, all his life, gone naked as far as the waist.
The guides left the waggon at the beginning of the El Paso road, whence, though the way was rough and sometimes nearly impassable, there could be no difficulty in finding the city. On the evening of the following day, Bartlett, hearing gunshots close at hand, sent a teamster forward to reconnoitre. The man soon came running back; some Apaches were besieging a wayside inn, he said. He mounted to his place and the horses were whipped up to the gallop.
“The more show and noise we make, the better,” remarked the driver as he reached for his gun.
As soon as they were past a belt of boulders they could see what was taking place. Twelve Indians on horseback were surrounding the house, while, from behind a half-shuttered window, a man and a woman were firing despairingly, though the Apaches were sheltered from their bullets; no one but these two seemed to be about the place. As the waggon stopped, one of the Indians got off his horse and began to batter at the flimsy door with the stock of his gun. The second teamster raised his rifle and fired with as much coolness as if he had been shooting a prairie wolf, and the redskin fell dead.
“Now they’ll make fools of themselves, and get between two fires. Leastwise they ’most always do,” he said.
After a moment’s hesitation the Indians charged with a frightful howl at the waggon; but, in so doing, they brought themselves in full range of the couple who had been trying to get a shot from the window. 225 Two more of their number dropped, and the rest pulled up as suddenly as they had begun their charge. Bartlett and the driver fired, wounding a man and killing a horse.
Such a reception was more than the Apaches had bargained for or could stand; they fired one wild, almost aimless volley which flew well clear of the waggon, then, urging their horses forward, they spurred past Bartlett’s team like a whirlwind and disappeared.