“He went off shutin’ an hour ago,” explained Phineas Glover.  “Reckon he’s astern somewhere.”

Glover, by the way, had been useful.  In the beginning of the affray he had brought his mule alongside of the headmost wagon, and there he had done really valuable service by blazing away alarmingly, though quite innocuously, at the gallopading enemy.

“It’s a bad lookout for Texas,” observed the Lieutenant “I shouldn’t want to bet high on his getting back to us.”

Coronado looked gloomy, fearing lest his trusted assassin was lost, and not knowing where he could pick up such another.

“And how are the ladies?” asked Thurstane, turning to Glover.

“Safe ’s a bug in a rug,” was the reply.  “Seen to that little job myself.  Not a bugger in the hull crew been nigh ’em.”

Thurstane cantered around to the front of the wagon which contained the two women, and called, “How are you?”

At the sound of his voice there was a rustle inside, and Clara showed her face over the shoulder of the driver.

“So you were not hurt?” laughed the young officer.  “Ah! that’s bully.”

With a smile which was almost a boast, she answered, “And I was not very frightened.”

At this, Aunt Maria struggled from between two rolls of bedding into a sitting posture and ejaculated, “Of course not!”

“Did they hit you?” asked Clara, looking eagerly at Thurstane.

“How brave you are!” he replied, admiring her so much that he did not notice her question.

“But I do hope it is over,” added the girl, poking her head out of the wagon.  “Ah! what is that?”

With this little cry of dismay she pointed at a group of savages who had gathered between the train and the mouth of the canon ahead of it.

“They are the enemy,” said Thurstane.  “We may have another little tussle with them.  Now lie down and keep close.”

“Acquit yourselves like—­men!” exhorted Aunt Maria, dropping back into her stronghold among the bedding.

Sergeant Meyer now approached Thurstane, touched his cap, and said, “Leftenant, here is brifate Sweeny who has not fired his beece once.  I cannot make him fire.”

“How is that, Sweeny?” demanded the officer, putting on the proper grimness.  “Why haven’t you fired when you were ordered?”

Sweeny was a little wizened shaving of an Irishman.  He was not only quite short, but very slender and very lean.  He had a curious teetering gait, and he took ridiculously short steps in marching, as if he were a monkey who had not learned to feel at ease on his hind legs.  His small, wilted, wrinkled face, and his expression of mingled simplicity and shrewdness, were also monkey-like.  At Thurstane’s reprimand he trotted close up to him with exactly the air of a circus Jocko who expects a whipping, but who hopes to escape it by grinning.

“Why haven’t you fired?” repeated his commander.