It seemed to him that he scarcely had closed his throbbing eyes ere he was aroused by excited cries and loud shouts. But he had slept, for dawn was here—a wet, foggy dawn. Amidst the fog the scouts were yelling shrilly; upon every side men were jumping up, grabbing guns, and staring into the mist before.
“Look out! Somebody comes! Many come!” were shouting the scouts.
Tom Horn was up; so was Lieutenant Maus, and Lieutenant Shipp. From where he lay exhausted, by his fire, Captain Crawford directed the defense.
“Be careful! They may be some of Captain Davis’s men,” he warned. “Don’t fire on them till you see who it is.”
“Wait for me to tell you, before you begin shooting,” repeated Tom Horn, to the scouts.
He started to climb higher, for a better view. Lieutenant Maus and Lieutenant Shipp were running to right and left, to take command of their companies. Down below, beyond a little basin, forms were dimly visible. They acted like soldiers.
On a sudden there was a resounding crash—the red flare of a volley lighted the fog, and a storm of bullets pelted the camp. Jimmie, wriggling for cover, leveled his gun, for the scouts were replying.
“Follow me, valientes (braves),” clearly called a voice, in good Spanish, from the basin in front; and a line of figures moved swiftly forward.
“Wait! Wait! Cease that firing! Stop your scouts, Horn!” shouted Captain Crawford, on his feet. “It’s a mistake. Those are Mexicans!”