Shoulder to shoulder the four pressed against the wall—fairly held there by the streams of lead hissing past—while the crowbars and picks and logs hammered at every fissure. Ernest felt a sudden shock, followed by a sharp sting in his left arm; he staggered for an instant—but Jim’s arm gripped his waist, and Sion and Leo yelled, above the tumult:
“Ernest’s hit. Cover him. Don’t let him drop, Jim.”
“Never mind me. I can stand. Go ahead,” pleaded Ernest. The blood was oozing through his coat, and running down his skin, inside.
[“Here we go!” called Jim. “Hoist him in, quick!”] The wooden shutter in front of them had been splintered and torn open; and following the heels of the first men, they scrambled through, half lifting, half dragging Ernest.
[“HERE WE GO!” CALLED JIM. “HOIST HIM IN, QUICK”]
In through door and windows and embrasures where the stones had been unseated, piled all—all the 100. The Mexicans fled again, and at the hearty cheers of victory reinforcements were immediately sent from the Navarro House.
“Let’s see that arm,” bade Jim, of Ernest, as they paused, panting, while shutters and door were being secured, and loopholes made.
“Huh! Only a flesh wound,” commented Sion, in tone of great relief. “Who’s got a handkerchief?”