"Ah!" they shouted, "Down with the Indian dogs!"
Nocobotha dealt the Spaniard a blow with the machete, to which he responded by a cut that scarred his adversary's face. The Toqui uttered a cry, not of pain but of rage.
"Eh," the bombero said to him, "I shall recognize you, if ever we meet again, for you bear my marks."
"Villain!" the chief said, as he fired a pistol at him.
"Ah!" Pedrito muttered in his turn, as he sank in his saddle.
He would have fallen had not his sword prevented him.
"He has killed me," the wounded man said, in a faint voice. "Courage, brothers, do not leave my corpse to them."
The three bomberos, supporting their brother, redoubled their ardour to get him away from inevitable destruction; but how were they to fly? The Indians, when the first moment of panic had passed, being able to count their enemies, returned to the charge and threatened to overwhelm them by their numbers. The position was horrible, and Pedrito, who had retained his coolness, understood that his brothers were about to ruin themselves for him, so, sacrificing his life to save them, he shouted—
"Fly! Leave me alone here; in a few minutes I shall be dead."
"No!" they replied, making their horses prance to ward off the blows, "We will all get away or perish together."