At parting, Bartlett gave the chief--who, by the way, called himself "Mangus Colorado"--an old overcoat, and his delight, his pride, and his antics forthwith convulsed the beholders. Months afterwards, while scouring the valley of the Rio Grande with Captain Buford and his dragoons, who were hunting for Indian horse-thieves, the Commissioner came across Mangus again; he was still wearing the overcoat, though it was a stifling day, and though he had, all his life, gone naked as far as the waist. The guides left the waggon at the beginning of the El Paso road, whence, though the way was rough and sometimes nearly impassable, there could be no difficulty in finding the city. On the evening of the following day, Bartlett, hearing gunshots close at hand, sent a teamster forward to reconnoitre. The man soon came running back; some Apaches were besieging a wayside inn, he said. He mounted to his place and the horses were whipped up to the gallop. "The more show and noise we make, the better," remarked the driver as he reached for his gun. As soon as they were past a belt of boulders they could see what was taking place. Twelve Indians on horseback were surrounding the house, while, from behind a half-shuttered window, a man and a woman were firing despairingly, though the Apaches were sheltered from their bullets; no one but these two seemed to be about the place. As the waggon stopped, one of the Indians got off his horse and began to batter at the flimsy door with the stock of his gun. The second teamster raised his rifle and fired with as much coolness as if he had been shooting a prairie wolf, and the redskin fell dead. "Now they'll make fools of themselves, and get between two fires. Leastwise they 'most always do," he said. After a moment's hesitation the Indians charged with a frightful howl at the waggon; but, in so doing, they brought themselves in full range of the couple who had been trying to get a shot from the window. Two more of their number dropped, and the rest pulled up as suddenly as they had begun their charge. Bartlett and the driver fired, wounding a man and killing a horse. Such a reception was more than the Apaches had bargained for or could stand; they fired one wild, almost aimless volley which flew well clear of the waggon, then, urging their horses forward, they spurred past Bartlett's team like a whirlwind and disappeared. The inn was one kept by a Mexican and his Yankee wife; and they, too, told fearful tales of the Apaches' depredations; and were both convinced that, but for the happy arrival of the waggon, they would have been killed, and their house plundered and burnt. CHAPTER XVIII A JOURNEY TO THE GRAN CHACO