And so they were.
Captain Crawford leaped upon a rock, to wave a white handkerchief, in signal, and call.
“No tiras! Amigos, amigos! Americanos! (Don’t fire! Friends, friends! Americans!),” chimed in Lieutenant Maus, who spoke Spanish.
He ran down, into the open. The captain followed him. Under the lifting mist they met four of the Mexicans. One was a strapping big officer, evidently the commander; another was a slender young lieutenant; the two others were officers, also. The line of men behind them had halted, and stood uneasily. They looked like a wild lot, too.
Chief of Scouts Horn advanced. Lieutenant Maus talked earnestly with the big officer, and interpreted to Captain Crawford. Tom Horn joined them, to assist.
On either side of Jimmie the scouts were poking their heads above the rocks, and cramming fresh cartridges into their Springfields. The carbine breech-locks snapped briskly.
“Mexicanos!” hissed Chato, with avid face. “Kill them all.”
“You and I will kill that big man, first,” answered Ka-e-ten-na.
“See!” bade Dutchy.
A file of other Mexican soldiers were sneaking through a ravine, to flank the camp.