“Take your orders,” advised Wilson. “There will be enough of that to go around, I guess.”
The rattle directly ahead acted like wine upon Danbury. Wilson heard him shout.
“All right, men. Let’s take it at double-quick.”
But the men could not stand the pace he cut out and so he was forced to fall back to stubborn marching. Their path swung to the right, and past many straggling 182 houses where the good housewives were just up and kindling their fires, with no inkling of what was about. To them nothing was ahead but the meagre routine of another day. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the passing men and returned, startled, to drag out their sleepy spouses and all the children. The sun had warmed the whole of this little world now and trees and houses stood out clean and distinct as though freshly washed. To the left the dry crackle of the rifles still sounded. It was evident that Otaballo had met with a good-sized force and one evidently prepared. It was not long before the road took them into the city proper. Before they had reached the first paved street Danbury turned to his men.
“Now, come on at a jump. There is a five-hundred-dollar bonus to the first man in the palace.”
He drew a revolver from his holster and, spurring on the guide, encouraged the men to a double-quick. Wilson kept by his side. They ran through the silent streets like phantom ghouls in a deserted city. Every window was tight shut and every door double-barred. The rumor had spread fast and entered the city an hour before them. They made a great rattling as they ran heavily down the narrow alleys and through the silent squares, but they received no more attention than a party of merry-makers returning in the small hours from some country dance. Then they rounded a corner and––a blinding flash from a red line of rifles checked their brisk progress. Wilson staggered back a few steps with his hand over his eyes like a 183 man hit beneath the chin. The noise was deafening. Then he turned slowly in a daze and looked to see what the men were doing. A half dozen of them had lain down as though to sleep, sprawled out in curiously uncomfortable attitudes. The others had paused a moment as if in doubt.
Their frightened eyes brought him to himself.
“Come on,” he growled. “Shoot low and fast.”
A group of the real fighters swept past to the accompaniment of biting snaps like the explosion of firecrackers. Then he fought his way to the front again, elbowing men to one side.
The thing that seemed remarkable to him was that he could face that spitting red line of rifles and yet keep his feet. They must be poor shots, he thought. He himself began to shoot rather deliberately. He did not see the faces of the men at whom he shot, for he always aimed at their breasts. Once, however, he took careful aim at a white face which lay against the breech of a rifle leveled at him. He aimed for the white space between the eyes quite as coolly as though he were facing a target. Yet he jumped a little in surprise as, following his report, he saw a blotch of red appear where he had aimed––saw it for just a second before the man reeled forward heavily and sunk as though he had no backbone.