I took it at a run, and when
half-way through saw directly before its inner end, facing the north,
a group of old, gray-haired Navajos standing alone with their arms
folded, and holding their blankets firmly about their breasts, while
in their immediate front were some one hundred mounted Indians,
painted and ornamented in true aboriginal warrior style.
On the terraced fronts of the houses and their flat roofs, and along
the three sides of the square, seemed to be gathered the entire
population of the town, looking passively on.
Before I had more than taken in the situation, a rattling discharge of
rifles came from the direction of the Dominicans, and the old men fell
in a heap to the ground. Covered with dust and mud, our horses reeking
with foam, Corporal Frank and I burst through the crowd of spectators
on the west side of the plaza, and gained the open space just as the
firing-party was advancing with gleaming knives and wild yells to
complete the tragedy by scalping the slain.
Raising my right hand I shouted, in Spanish, "Stop where you are!"
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.
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