“Apaches!” said Coronado.  “What! after I had made a treaty with them?”

“This un is a ’Patchie,” remarked Texas, giving the nearest body a shove with his boot.  “Thar was two of ’em.  They knifed one of your men.  T’other cleared, he did.  I was comin’ in afoot.  I had a notion of suthin’ goin’ on, ‘n’ left the critters out thar, with the rancheros, ‘n’ stole in.  Got in just in time to pop the cuss that had you.  T’other un vamosed.”

“Oh, the villains!” shrieked Coronado, excited at the thought of his narrow escape.  “This is the way they keep their treaties.”

“Mought be these a’n’t the same,” observed Texas.  “Some ’Patchies is wild, ‘n’ live separate, like bachelor beavers.”

Coronado stooped and examined the dead Indian.  He was a miserable object, naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his legs absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts.  He might well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their savage brethren, lead a precarious existence outside of the tribal organization, and are to the Apaches what the Texas Smiths are to decent Americans.

“One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet,” continued Texas.  “Don’t run with the rest of the crowd.”

“And there’s that infernal coward of a ranchero,” cried Coronado, as the runaway sentry sneaked back to the group.  “You cursed poltroon, why didn’t you give the alarm?  Why didn’t you fight?”

He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and spat on him.  Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested, “Better shute the dam cuss.”

But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the fellow go.  “You saved my life,” he said to Texas.  “When we get back you shall be paid for it.”

At the moment he intended to present him with the two hundred dollars which were cumbering his boots.  But by the time they had reached Garcia’s hacienda on the way back to Santa Fe, his gratitude had fallen off seventy-five per cent, and he thought fifty enough.  Even that diminished his profits on the expedition to four hundred and fifty dollars.  And Coronado, although extravagant, was not generous; he liked to spend money, but he hated to give it or pay it.

During the four days which immediately followed his safe return to Santa Fe, he and Garcia were in a worry of anxiety.  Would Manga Colorada fulfil his contract and cast a shadow of peril over the Bernalillo route?  Would letters or messengers arrive from California, informing Clara of the death and will of Munoz?  Everything happened as they wished; reports came that the Apaches were raiding in Bernalillo; the girl received no news concerning her grandfather.  Coronado, smiling with success and hope, met Thurstane at the Van Diemen house, in the presence of Clara and Aunt Maria, and blandly triumphed over him.

“How now about your safe road through the southern counties?” he said.  “Apaches!”