His nervous fingers glided swiftly over the American’s forehead, making quick examination of the wound.
“Santa Maria be praised!” cheered the Cuban. “The wound is not a deep one.”
“Glancing bullet, likely,” muttered Hal, rising to his knees, and picking up his rifle once more. “The shock knocked me over, I suppose. Perhaps fright had something to do with it.”
“Fright?” echoed Juan, indignantly. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Well, I’m certainly feeling some fright,” smiled Hal, his face more than a trifle pallid as he took another look down below at the squad trotting upward.
They were just aiming for another volley, those Spaniards, who were now hardly more than an eighth of a mile away.
“Down!” warned Maynard, himself setting the example.
He had no more than ducked when the volley came.
“Up!” quivered Hal. “Give ’em some of their own medicine!”
Six shots rang out, almost simultaneously. Two saddles were emptied.