Frank had unslung his carbine and was holding it by the small of the
stock in his right hand, the barrel resting in his left, looking
calmly and resolutely at the hesitating Indians. The blood of three
generations of soldierly ancestors was thrilling his veins with a
resolution to act well in any emergency which might arise.

The Pueblos halted, and at the same moment a group of eighteen women
and nearly three times as many children, some of them in arms, who had
been reserved--as I afterwards learned--for later shooting, ran into
the space and clung to my feet, stirrups, and the mane and tail of my
horse, entreating with eyes and voices for protection.

The war-cries had ceased and the Dominicans had gathered in an angry
and gesticulating group, when Sergeant Cunningham and the rest of the
men appeared on foot, running into the plaza from a side street, and
formed in line before us.

The massacre ended with the death of the old men. Aided by the agent
and the Catholic priest of the pueblo I succeeded in impressing upon
the Jemez warriors that they must discountenance any further hostile
demonstrations of the Santo Dominicans, and told the latter that
unless they promptly withdrew and departed for their own reservation I
should punish them for their recent conduct. They at once sullenly
departed.

That evening, by the light of a brilliant moon, the dead Navajos were
buried upon a hill-top overlooking the town, amid the wailing of their
women and much ceremonious demonstration by the Jemez people, and
Frank and I retired for the night to the house of the hospitable
priest.