Then suddenly the great gate of the walled square belched men and horses—men without rifles. The disarmed gente of Salazar! They milled around as if in a panic. "Give us our rifles!" they shouted. "Where's our ammunition?"
"Your rifles are in the cuartel," answered the Colonel, "but your cartridges are out there killing colorados!"
A great cry went up. "They've taken away our arms! They want to murder us!"
"How can we fight, man? What can we do without rifles?" screamed one man in Don Petronilo's face.
"Come on, compañeros! Let's go out and strangle 'em with our hands, the—colorados!" yelled one. Five struck spurs into their horses, and sped furiously toward the Puerta—without arms, without hope. It was magnificent!
"We'll all get killed!" said another. "Come on!" And the other forty-five swept wildly out on the road to Santo Domingo.
The twenty-five recruits that had been ordered to hold the southern side had ridden out about half a mile, and there stopped, seeming uncertain what to do. Now they caught sight of the disarmed fifty galloping for the mountains.
"The compañeros are fleeing! The compañeros are fleeing!"
For a moment there was a sharp exchange of cries. They looked at the dust cloud towering over them. They thought of the mighty army of merciless devils who made it. They hesitated, broke—and fled furiously through the chaparral toward the mountains.
I suddenly discovered that I had been hearing shooting for some time. It sounded immensely far away—like nothing so much as a clicking typewriter. Even while it held our attention it grew. The little trivial pricking of rifles deepened and became serious. Out in front now it was practically continuous—almost the roll of a snare-drum.