Pedrito, who knew his brothers, was not ignorant that their resolution was unbending.
The fight was going on at this moment, two yards at the most from the tree of Gualichu, Pedrito, while his brothers were defending themselves on all sides at once, slipped down to the ground, and when the bomberos turned round, they found his horse without its rider. Pedrito had disappeared.
"He is dead, what is to be done?"
"Obey him, as we were unable to save him," Juan answered.
"Forward, then!"
And all three, tearing up their horses' sides with their spurs, bounded into the thick of the Indians. The collision was terrible; still, a few seconds later, the bomberos, saved from danger by their incredible audacity, were flying, like the wind, in three different directions, while uttering cries of triumph.
The Indians recognized the inutility of a pursuit across the sand; so they contented themselves with picking up their dead and counting the wounded, altogether some thirty victims.
"These Spaniards are perfect demons, when they are obstinate," Pincheira said, remembering his own origin.
"Yes," Nocobotha answered him, mad with fury, "if ever I place my foot on their chest, they will expiate the wrongs they have done my race for centuries."
"I am entirely devoted to you," Pincheira continued.