“Clear away the brush, boys, under foot and on top, so we can move and see to shoot; and where the bank’s too high to look over, dig toe-holds for yourselves.”
From in front muskets were hammering away, as the Mexicans proceeded to shoot blindly into the fog.
“They must think they’re going to scare us out by noise,” asserted Jim, while he and Ernest and their comrades tore and slashed and dug. “They’ve got cannon, too, all right enough. Those were the wheels I heard squeaking.”
Ernest listened anxiously for the “Boom!” of the cannon. He didn’t mind so much the muskets, but those cannon balls would plough through everything.
Now the brush had been cleared, and footholds had been cut, and there seemed nothing to do but to wait again.
See? The fog was reddening, as it thinned and the sun’s beams struck through—for the sun must have been up and shining three hours.
“Steady, boys,” repeated the officers—and here, at a run, into the bottom-land entered the seven outpost guards from the mission cupola.
“Did you hear me whoop?” panted Robert Calder. “Nigh all Mexico is out yon. We glimpsed ’em through a break in the fog.”
“Wall, you’re in time for the dance,” remarked Henry Karnes.
The fog was lifting, rolling up like a great curtain. Along the lines under the low bluff sounded the click of gun locks, as hammers were cocked.