Part 20 (1/2)

We had two rifles in the shop. I wasn't then, and never have been, as good a shot with a rifle as with a pistol. Gonzales, though, had been a hunter. He took the rifle with a pleased smile.

”You make _me_ run,” says he, playfully, to outdoors. ”Now I make _you_ jump! It is thus we amuse ourselves.” A man showed his head, to the sound of an instant crash from the rifle. He jumped, all right.

”The old church shall say ma.s.s for your soul, Juan,” says Gonzales. ”You are the best dead man in the country.”

After that, they were careful. I thought they'd leave, seeing they couldn't do anything with us, till Pedro explained they were probably holding us till armed men came. I should have felt dismal once more at this news, if I'd had nothing to do. The darkened store wore on my feelings. One feller I shot wriggled in a funny fas.h.i.+on as he lay on the ground. He was still wriggling--I could see him every time I stopped to think. He gave a long twist, like a snake, bringing his face to the light, at the last. He looked as if he felt perfectly disgusted. He hadn't ought to have looked that way. It bothered me.

The other three stood the gaff of waiting much better than I. In fact, I was frantic inside me, though I made a good chest of it. ”Pede,” I says, ”let me have the other rifle--I'm going scouting.”

”That is well,” says Gonzales. ”If you can get up on the hill without being seen, you can drive them out, and we shall have a shot.”

So I took the rifle and squirmed through the brush and rocks back of the store until I was a hundred yards or so up the hill. It was a steep slant. In going so far I'd risen nearly a hundred feet. I could see part of our besiegers plain. Some ten of 'em lay behind boulders, smoking cigarettes and taking it easy. Another batch sat under the bridge. The rest I couldn't see.

I had a particular grudge against the feller who challenged me to fight.

I searched carefully, and finally made him out, under a rock about three hundred yards away, sitting with his back to me, and playing a game with the man in front of him.

His fat back made a corking target. I rested the gun between two stones and had him dead to rights. I was ready to listen to the report and see him fall over, when, by the G.o.ds of war! my finger wouldn't pull the trigger. I hadn't the least feeling about killing that treacherous skunk, so far as I knew, but all the same, I could _not_ pull that trigger. I was surprised, plenty. ”Why, you d.a.m.n fool!” I says to myself, ”what's eating you! That lad would 'a' slaughtered your entire family, by this time!”

True, too, but it didn't make the gun go off. It's mighty queer how an unexpected ”me” will jump out of you at times. There was one Bill Saunders just as anxious to do that blackguard as a man could be, and there was another--and the boss, too--who wouldn't stand for it.

I cussed between my teeth. ”If you'd look at me, instead of turning your back, you dog!” I whispered, ”I'd heap you up quick.” I broke out into a sweat of shame, knowing how my friends were putting their faith in my gathering a man or two. I could have cried with mortification. Suddenly my lad jumped up and pointed, forgetting where he was. The next second the finger jammed into the ground, and the whang of Gonzales's rifle cut through the valley.

I looked where he pointed. Here come a string of men with guns, dog-trotting. I up and pasted into them. The shot started those below.

Some jumped up. I could have whaled it to them all right now, but a sh.e.l.l jammed. Our boys socked it to them from the store, while I clawed at the durned cartridge. Got it out with my knife at last and banged away, first below and then at the approaching soldiers. I dropped a man and the soldiers scattered behind rocks and trees.

There was no use staying longer. I had only three cartridges left; nothing much I could do anyhow, as they would sneak up from this on; besides, I stood to get cut off from the store, so I carefully picked my way back, not wanting them to learn there was no one on the hill. In such a case as ours, you fight for time. I hoped nothing from time, but every minute you lived was clear gain. Out here in the country prisoners of war were stood against a wall.

So long as they thought we had men on the hill, they'd be cautious.

Likely they'd send men around to clear the hill, first, and that would give us some minutes.

The other boys had seen the arrival of the soldiers. They were quiet, but hopeless. Gonzales shrugged his shoulders and examined his rifle.

”How many?” he asked.

”Soldiers and all, or just soldiers?”

”All.”

”Nigh a hundred.”

”_Ay de mi! Adios el mundo!_ Four men against a hundred! Well, they shall speak of us after--not a hundred will they be, when we leave.”

The feeling that you'll leave a good name behind to comfort your last minutes, is a mighty good thing. Wish I had it. It didn't matter a darn to me. All I could think of was that they shouldn't get me--not if they was a million--and I proposed to work on those lines with force.

”Perhaps they won't jump us,” I said with more wish than hope. ”If they try any other play, we can hold 'em a week.”

I had some contempt for those soldiers. I parted with it later. You see, they were barefoot, ragged, and dirty. Not a thing marked 'em for soldiers, but the guns and the orders. I hadn't seen many soldiers, but what I had seen was gay with uniforms and a bra.s.s band. Now, if they'd come at our store with a bra.s.s band, it would have been something like.

This was only a rucus, with us holding the working end of the mule. No glory, no uniforms, no band, no nothing, but just getting holes shot in you, and it wouldn't be no more than truthful for me to admit I was perfectly contented with my hide as she was.