In an instant the camp was in pandemonium. Revolvers cracked and bullets whizzed and bandits and Rangers were at death grips. The Mexicans grasped their arms, and under the threats and curses of Espato tried to rally. They were fully equal in number to the Rangers, but far inferior in stamina and courage, and were steadily driven back to the edge of the plateau.
Dick and Tom were in the van of the charge, and after the first volley they rushed to the tree where Phil was bound. A slash of their knives cut the ropes, and then they threw their arms about their comrade and fairly hugged him in the exuberance of their delight.
Phil was quite as incoherent in his rapture as they, but the fight was on and all were eager to join in the fray.
“Rub my arms and legs, fellows, and get the blood into them,” cried Phil, “and then give me a gun. I’ve got a score to settle with Espato.”
They set to work, and in a minute or two Phil was ready for action. They gave him a Colt’s, and all three ran in the direction of the melee.
But by this time the fight was nearly over. Many of the Mexicans had fallen, and others as they neared the edge of the frightful precipice had thrown down their arms and surrendered.
Espato himself was on the very edge of the cliff engaged in a desperate knife contest with an antagonist. As the boys rushed toward him, Phil gave a gasp of surprise as he saw that that antagonist was Tony.
At the same moment Tony’s knife found its mark and was buried to the haft in Espato’s breast.
With a wild scream the scoundrel toppled over the cliff. Shriek followed shriek as he whirled over in that appalling flight. Then came a crash and—silence.
Tony wiped his knife on his shirt and thrust it back in its sheath.