“We haven’t any of those things. We’ve just been raided—cleaned out—we’re as poor as you are,” was Scott’s reply. The Indians conferred together. “It’s a question of whether they think we’re lying or not,” said Scott, drily.
“Exactly. And they have unfortunately every reason to believe that a white man usually is,” replied Hard. “What’s the play if they come at us?”
“Shoot as many as we can,” said Scott. “They’ll do the rest. That’s why I sent the women off.”
“I thought so. Well, here goes. I ought to be able to get a couple before I cash in though I’m not considered very dangerous with firearms,” replied Hard, calmly, though his heart was registering something approaching acute blood pressure.
From the leader came in angry Spanish: “We don’t believe you! We’ll come and get it.”
“Come on!” yelled Herrick. Instantly, a dozen Yaquis were off their horses and running toward the house, shooting as they came. As instantly, two of the leaders fell in the path of the others.
“Good boy, Herrick!” cried Scott. “Let ’em have it again!” he yelled, as the Indians, halted for a moment by the fall of their men, came on again. The shots rang out again but this time no one fell. Hard felt something sing by him in the darkness and thanked God that the women were not there. Herrick rushed over for more cartridges.
“They’re coming!” he shouted, excitedly.
“Let ’em come. Some of ’em are coming to something they won’t like,” growled Scott. “Look out—in the doorway!”
Two Indians had burst their way into the house, but disconcerted by its utter darkness after the moonlight outside, paused a moment to get their bearings. Scott, Hard and Herrick shot with one accord. One Indian came on; the other uttered a cry of pain; then both dashed outside for the shelter of the veranda. There was silence; the Indians hesitating in doubt as to their companions’ fate, the white men uncertain as to what form the attack would take next.