CHAPTER XII.
THE GRINGOES MOVE.
From without the door there now came shouts of baffled rage. The Mexicans were finding out, as their kind has done before, that a party of brave Americans is more than a match for twice their number in a fight. Moreover, thanks mainly to Jack’s presence of mind in slipping out of the house and performing scout work, our party was strongly entrenched. The door was stout, and the iron bar within solid. There was no apparent way of forcing an entrance by battering it down, for the landing was too small to use a “ram” effectually.
“Hooray, we’ve got ’em beaten!” cried Ralph thoughtlessly.
Coyote flashed a scornful eye on him.
“Beaten!” he scoffed, “we ain’t got ’em beaten till we’re out of this place and miles on our way. Why, if they kain’t do anything else they kin starve us out if they want to.”
“That’s so,” assented Ralph sorrowfully, and then with a violent twist of spirits, “I guess we’re goners.”
“There, go galloping off the reservation agin,” struck in Pete; “we ain’t goners yit by a long shot, but we’ve got a powerful lot of work afore us, as the government said when they tackled digging that Panama Canal.”
All now became silent once more, or at least the boys could hear nothing. Evidently the Mexicans had withdrawn for a council of war.
“This time they’ll be in dead earnest,” opined the cow-puncher, “so keep a smart eye open for ’em everywhere.”