The hostiles were driven back, but the defenders had sustained heavy losses. There were dead white men just inside the wall; three wounded troopers groaned as they staggered across the plaza to receive medical aid; and Sergeant Cassara howled maledictions upon renegades and hostiles as Gonzales bandaged a bad cut in the Santa Barbara soldier’s shoulder.
“Save me my blood, good pirate!” he cried. “Stop its flow, for the love of the saints, before I lose so much that I am weakened! If I were to meet this Fly-by-Night and had not the strength to stand up before him——”
“Hah! I’ll attend to the renegade in your name and my own, comrade!” Gonzales replied. “You can lose twice this blood and still fight. ’Tis a clean cut and soon will heal—just a mere prick in the skin. You have been living too soft; in good condition you scarcely would notice a slash like this. In my pirate days——”
“Spare me your pirate days!” Cassara cried. “A mere prick in the skin, eh? Give me my blade!”
“It were best for you to rest here beside the wall for the time being, comrade, and get back your strength.”
“My strength? A mere prick in the skin? Hah! My blade, good pirate!”
A chorus of shrieks came from the wall; the hostiles were attacking again. Gonzales turned and ran to his place when he heard the comandante screeching orders. Sergeant Cassara staggered to his feet, stood for a time with legs spread wide apart until he could walk without reeling, then picked up blade and returned to the combat.
Gonzales, firing and using blade by turns, realised that the sergeant stood beside him again.
“Hah! At them, brave soldier!” he cried. “To your right, man! That cur almost had you! Easy—easy! You still are weak.”
“Prick in the skin!” Cassara hissed, and sent his blade home again.