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.