"Do as I say," he growled. "This is our fight. Get down! Now, you terriers, let them have it!"
There was a wild skurrying of mounted figures almost at the coach wheels, hair streaming, feathers waving, lean, red arms thrown up, the air vocal with shrill outcries--then the dull bark of a Henry, the boom of a Winchester, the sharp spitting of a Colt. The smoke rolled out in a cloud, pungent, concealing, nervous fingers pressing the triggers again and again. They could see reeling horses, men gripping their ponies' manes to keep erect, staring, frightened eyes, animals flung back on their haunches, rearing madly in the air. The fierce yell of exultation changed into a savage scream, bullets crashed into the thin sides of the coach; it rocked with the contact of a half-naked body flung forward by a plunging horse; the Mexican swore wildly in Spanish, and then--the smoke blew aside and they saw the field; the dead and dying ponies, three motionless bodies huddled on the grass, a few dismounted stragglers racing on foot for the river bank, and a squad of riders circling beyond the trail. Hamlin swept the mingled sweat and blood out of his eyes, smiled grimly, and glanced back into the coach, instinctively slipping fresh cartridges into his hot rifle.
"That's one time those fellows ran into a hornet's nest," he commented quietly, all trace of excitement vanished. "Better load up, boys, for we 're not through yet--they 'll only be more careful next time. Anybody hurt?"
"Somethin' creased my back," replied Moylan, complainingly, and trying vainly to put a hand on the spot. "Felt like a streak o' fire." The Sergeant reached across, fingering the torn shirt curiously.
"Seared the flesh, pardner, but no blood worth mentioning. They 've got some heavy artillery out there from the sound--old army muskets likely. It is our repeating rifles that will win out--those red devils don't understand them yet."
"Señor, you tink we win out den?" and Gonzales peered up blinking into the other's face. "Sacre! dey vil fight deeferent de nex' time. Ze Americaine muskeet, eet carry so far--ess eet not so?"
Hamlin patted his brown barrel affectionately as if it were an old friend, and smiled across into the questioning eyes of the girl.
"I 'm willing to back this weapon against the best of them for distance," he replied easily, "and it's accurate besides. How about it, Moylan?"
"I 'd about as soon be in front as behind one of them cannon," answered the sutler soberly. "I toted one four years. But say, pardner, what's yer name? Yer a cavalryman, ain't yer?"