A boy not more than fourteen years of age, screaming like a little demon and discharging his arrows at full speed with wicked dexterity, rode at the head of this savage _hourra_ of the Cossacks of the American desert.

As the fierce child came on, Coronado saw him and recognized him with a mixture of wonder, dread, and hate.

Here was the son of the false-hearted savage who had accepted his money, agreed to do his work, and then turned against him.

Should he kill him?
It would open an account of blood between himself and the father.

Never mind; vengeance is sweet; moreover, the youngster was dangerous.
Coronado raised his revolver, steadied it across his left arm, took a calm aim, and fired.