The soldiers broke into a run, firing willy-nilly, and bunching together at the bridge end.
“Viva Montilla!” they shouted. “Viva Tovar!”
Then came answering cries from across the bridge, where khaki uniforms were swarming in a hasty rally, where shots were plentiful now, and a drum was keeping up a steady thump! thump!
Behind the cluster of men on that bridge was Manuelita. She had no thought of danger for herself, though the bullets were flying about her. She did not even watch the khaki figures hurrying to oppose, or those others spreading out between the bridges, lining the Curiepe to prevent a crossing. Her gaze was upon the men of Rio Chico. Her dust-rimmed eyes searched for one figure.
But now Tovar was leading Los Salvadores across the stone-flagged bridge. Officered by red-sashed men in blue, the front ranks of the government received them with bayonets. Those in the background sent upon them a hail of lead.
“Ah!”
The piercing cry that broke from Manuelita was heard above the clashing of steel, the singing of bullets, the curses and vivas, the shrieks of agony. There he was, there—in the very front of the fight, laying about him with his machete. Her whole body trembled, her heart fluttered, her breath came in gasps, she choked.
“Madre de Dios!” She clutched the spear-shaped knife. “Let me but get at him first!”
But now she was rudely driven back. The government was gaining—it was machete to bayonet, and the latter’s deal was the more deadly. Los Salvadores retreated, one against another, clubbing their Mausers, filling the air with their yells. Maria’s coronel raced up, bringing a futile order. For Pedro Tovar was out of earshot, in the front of them all, still facing the enemy, but backing from the fierce onslaught of the men in yellow.
But where was Ricardo? Manuelita could not see. Forgetful of personal safety, she sprang upon the nearer iron rail of the bridge. And from there, looking beyond the line of hand-to-hand combat, beyond the van of the government, she saw him—lying flat upon the flags, arms stretched out, face downward. At his curly head was a growing pool.