Scarcely two hundred yards distant we saw a compact body of over three
hundred Indians. They were charging down upon us, and with a general
and frightful war-whoop they began firing.

We deployed as skirmishers. The men fired by volleys, sheltering
themselves behind bowlders, logs, and ridges.

Instantly, at the head of the mounted column, there was an emptying of
saddles. The onset was suddenly checked, and the Indians broke into
two divisions. Part of the force swept along the outer side of the
horseshoe ridge to the south, and the other part wheeled round to the
north.

I met the attack by dividing my men into two divisions. The men moved
along the interior slopes, firing as they ran, and kept pace with the
ponies running to the extremities.

The Navajos had lost twenty men. A chief, who had been in the front of
the fight throughout, had the utmost difficulty in holding them in
close column.

"That is the great chief, El Ebano," cried the elder Cordova, as he
put his gun to his shoulder. Taking careful aim at the gray-haired
leader, he fired, and one of the most famous chieftains of the Navajos
rolled from his saddle. The beautiful black horse he had been riding
ran on towards us. With El Ebano dead, the Indians were dismayed. A
moment later they were in full retreat, and joined their comrades who
had stolen our cattle.

* * * * *