The brakes ground down, and the panting locomotive came to a stop within a few feet of the man with the red flag. It could now be seen that he was a small, dark Mexican, wearing a high-crowned hat.
"Why, I know that fellow, he——" began Ralph. But his recognition of the fellow, whom he had seen in Madero's camp, came too late.
From the woods ahead of them, a perfect hailstorm of bullets began to spit about the engine. Fortunately, none of the occupants of her cab were struck, although the windows were splintered and the woodwork honeycombed.
"Go ahead!" roared Buck.
"What if they've torn up the track?" gasped Ralph.
"Not likely. If they had, they wouldn't be bothering to shoot at us. Let her out. Ouch!"
A bullet whizzed past the burly showman's ear, and just nicked the tip of it.
With a roar of rage, like the bellowings of an angry bull, he leaned his huge form out of the window and began pumping lead from his revolver into the woods. It is doubtful if his fire had any effect, but at that minute Ralph started the engine up again. A yell came from the Mexicans within the wood, as he did so. A hundred or more poured out, firing as they came.
"Duck, everybody!" yelled Coyote Pete, as the storm broke.
A tempest of lead rattled about the engine, but, thanks to the protection of the steel cab, not one of the crouching occupants was hurt. Almost before they realized it, they had swung around the curve, and were safe. As Buck Bradley had surmised, no attempt had been made to wreck the track beyond, the insurrectos having counted, seemingly, on stopping the dash for the Esmeralda by their ambush in the wood.