He was compelled to crawl from one to another and shake them into ceasing from firing. And to each, separately, he had to explain that all their ammunition was with the mules, and that they must be sparing with the little they had in their magazines and belts.
“And don’t let them hit you,” Henry warned. “They’ve got old muskets and blunderbusses that will drive holes through you the size of dinner-plates.”
An hour later, the last cartridge, save several in Francis’ automatic pistol, was gone; and to the irregular firing of the Caroos the pit replied with silence. José Mancheno was the first to guess the situation. He cautiously crept up to the edge of the pit to make sure, then signaled to the Caroos that the ammunition of the besieged was exhausted and to come on.
“Nicely trapped, senors,” he exulted down at the defenders, while from all around the rim laughter arose from the Caroos.
But the next moment the change that came over the situation was as astounding as a transformation scene in a pantomime. With wild cries of terror the Caroos were fleeing. Such was their disorder and haste that numbers of them dropped their muskets and machetes.
“Anyway, I’ll get you, Senor Buzzard,” Francis pleasantly assured Mancheno, at the same time flourishing his pistol at him.
He leveled his weapon as Mancheno fled, but reconsidered and did not draw trigger.
“I’ve only three shots left,” he explained to Henry, half in apology. “And in this country one can never tell when three shots will come in handiest, ‘as I’ve found out, beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt.’”
“Look!” the peon cried, pointing to his father and to the distant mountainside. “That is why they ran away. They have learned the peril of the sacred things of Maya.”
The old priest, running over the knots of the tassel in an ecstasy that was almost trance-like, was gazing fixedly at the distant mountainside, from which, side by side and close together, two bright flashes of light were repeating themselves.