“Al machete! al machete!” (To the sword!) roared Juan, keeping up a thunderous rattle of musketry.
“Surround the enemy!” thundered Hal. “Give no quarter to Spaniards! Every foe killed to-day is a foe the less to meet to-morrow.”
All the while the incessant banging of guns rang out.
To the startled bathers by the creek it seemed as if they had fallen, naked and unarmed, into fierce, one-sided battle.
“Keep a-banging and a-shouting,” muttered Hal, as he sped by Juan.
Ramirez obeyed with a will, while Hal, though he still continued to yell, busied his hands by gathering up the rifles an armful at a time.
There was rope around in plenty among the camp baggage.
Working like a Trojan, Hal quickly had thirty of the rifles lashed upon two of the horses.
Juan turned and saw with blazing eyes what his comrade had accomplished.
“The Spaniards are running,” he quivered. “If it were not so, we would have them on our hands by this time.”