When the Indian was comfortable, the Vermonter buckled on his own revolver, and slinging a heavy cartridge belt over his shoulder seized one of the rifles in the corner and hurried out to the trenches.
At the plant every one was in a state of excitement. The ugly-looking, three-inch fieldpiece had been unjacketed and made ready for action. The battery of French machine guns, those death-dealing instruments that fired more than four hundred shots a minute, had all been mounted and manned, and soldiers and workmen alike all fully armed, waited crouching in the trenches. The two improvised searchlights were still burning and by their light the whole scene looked weird and uncanny.
Mr. Ryder was as active as the rest, directing the position of the defenders and arranging other details. But in the midst of it all he found time to call Jack aside and hold a brief conversation with him.
“That Indian’s story has me thoroughly puzzled. If all he says is true, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, some one is certainly plotting for my downfall. Whom do you suppose José Cerro’s ‘benefactor’ is anyway? This is the most mysterious situation I have ever been mixed up with in my life. It certainly has me guessing. I wonder if—Look! Look! See that flash over there! On the mountain! Listen! Hear the roar! It’s the rebels! They’ve lugged their old fieldpiece up there again. They are trying to drop shells down here! Ho, boys! Bill! Joe! Did you see that flash! Throw a shell or two up there the next time they fire!” The last was addressed to the men in charge of the three-inch gun.
Again came the flash, then the far-off roar and Jack heard the shell go humming high in the air above the plant and burst against the mountain across the river. But this time the gun on the mountain was answered by the one at the plant. The battery belched forth a cloud of fire and smoke and a moment later Jack saw a flash of fire in the woods across the valley where the shell exploded. The fieldpiece at the plant was of the quick-firing variety and four shots were hurled up on to the mountain before another one was sent toward the station.
Twice shells burst within the inclosure about the plant, one carrying away a section of the rurales’ barracks hall and setting fire to the rest of it. The flames added to the excitement of the occasion but were quickly extinguished by two men with a hose, held in readiness for that very kind of emergency. Until just before daylight, the firing kept up, then the gun on the mountain became strangely silent and the men at Necaxa concluded that their shells had put it into disuse forever. But when the first golden streak of morning showed above the mountain tops, and the valley became light enough for the men to see any distance, a new terror took the place of the gun on the mountain. From here and there in the underbrush across the valley bottom came tiny jets of smoke, and Jack for the first time in his life heard the ominous hum of bullets fired with deadly earnestness. José Cerro’s sharpshooters seemed everywhere and the flying pellets of lead and steel kicked up the dust in all directions. For a long time the rifles in the trenches were silent, for the men could locate no one to fire at. The fieldpiece, however, kept shelling the forest but with little effect, for the gunners could not see the enemy.
Then suddenly two natives showed themselves on the edge of the wood. Instantly, a volley rang out from the defenders and the French machine guns began to rattle viciously. The battle was on!