“What know you of the blessed Virgin, priest of Satan?” shouted a rough follower of the Alcalde.
“Aye!” yelled another. “Writer of foul books! Seducer of young girls!”
Julio Gomez stooped and took up a large piece of shale. He threw it with all his force, just as the priest again strove to make his voice heard above the din. It struck Josè full on the forehead. The jagged stone cut deeply, and the red blood spurted. Josè fell into the arms of Lázaro and was dragged into the house.
Then Rosendo, with a mad yell, plunged wildly into the crowd. A dozen arms sought to hold him, but in vain. Julio saw the terrifying apparition hurtling down upon him. He turned and fled, but not before the great knife had caught him on its point as it swung down and ripped a deep gash the full length of his naked back.
Then the last vestige of reason fled from the mob, and chaos took the reins. Back and forth through the plaza, in front of the church where hung the image of the Prince of Peace, the maddened people surged, fighting like demons, raining blows with clubs, fists, and machetes, stabbing with their long, wicked knives, hurling sharp stones, gouging, ripping, yelling, shrieking, calling upon Saints and Virgin to curse their enemies and bless their blows. Over the heads of them all towered the mighty frame of Rosendo. Back before his murderous machete fell the terrified combatants. His course among them was that of a cannon ball. Dozens hung upon his arms, his shoulders, 307 or flung themselves about his great legs. His huge body, slippery and reeking, was galvanized into energy incarnate. Sparks seemed to flash from his eyes. His breath turned to livid flame. Behind him, following in the swath which he cut, his supporters crowded, fought and yelled. Don Mario’s forces gave way. They cursed, broke, and fled. Then Don Jorge, a man whose mortal strength was more than common, threw himself upon the steaming, frenzied Rosendo and stopped his mad progress.
“Rosendo––amigo! Caramba! Listen! They are fleeing to the bodega to get the rifles and ammunition! Come––Dios arriba! Come!”
Cut, bruised, and dripping blood from a dozen wounds, Rosendo stood for a moment blinking in confusion. A score lay on the ground about him. Whether dead or wounded, he knew not, nor cared. The sight of Don Mario’s supporters in full flight fascinated him. He broke into a chuckle. It sounded like the gloating of an imp of Satan. Then the force of Don Jorge’s words smote him.
“Caramba! They will return with the rifles!” he panted. “What shall we do?”
“Come! We must lose no time!” cried Don Jorge, pulling him toward the house. Those of the priest’s other followers who were still whole scattered wildly to their homes and barred their doors. There they searched for knives, machetes, razors, any tool or instrument that might be pressed into service as a weapon, and stood guard. One frenzied fellow, the sole possessor of an antiquated shotgun, projected the rusty arm from a hole in the wall of his mud hut and blazed away down the deserted street indiscriminately and without aim.
Within the house Juan and Lázaro were supporting the dazed Josè, while Doña Maria bathed and bound his wound. Carmen stood gazing upon the scene in bewilderment. The precipitousness of the affair had taken her breath away and driven all thought in mad rout from her mind.