The major, lying half upright on a butaca, slept the restless sleep of a man whose mind is preoccupied by affairs of great moment; when all of a sudden he felt himself rudely shaken, and a voice, half unintelligible from emotion, shouted into his ears:
"Rise, major, rise! We are betrayed! The vaqueros have given up the barricade to the Apaches, and the Indians are in the place."
The officer bounded to his feet, seized his sword, and rushed out of doors without answering, followed by the man—a Mexican soldier—who had so rudely awakened him.
At a single glance, the major recognised the truth of the disastrous news reported to him. El Zapote and his comrades had not only surrendered the barrier to the Apaches, but had even joined them, followed by the few wretches we mentioned above.
The situation was very critical. The Mexicans, disheartened by the shameful defection of the vaqueros, fought without energy or order, dreading further treachery, and on that account not daring to make good head against the enemy.
The Apaches and the vaqueros howled like demons, and charged furiously on the demoralised defenders of the presidio, whom they slaughtered pitilessly.
It was a horrid spectacle to witness, this homicidal strife, illumined by the lurid reflection of the houses fired by the Indians to light up their victory. The war whoop of the Apaches mingled with the cries of agony of the Mexicans they were massacring and the awful roaring of the flames, fanned by the frequent squalls.
The major threw himself resolutely into the thickest of the fight, calling the garrison around him, and exciting them by voice and gesture, to a desperate resistance.
The appearance of the commandant of the presidio produced an electrical effect on the Mexicans. Animated by his example, they formed around him, and replied by a well-directed fire to the attacks of their ferocious foes.
The vaqueros, brought to a stand by the point of the bayonet, ignominiously fled, pursued by a shower of balls.