Now the crest was alive with Indians, who fired repeatedly at the fleeing figure. Some gave chase until bullets from the wall cut them down. On and on raced the fugitive toward the promised shelter of the mission.
“’Tis this Rojerio Rocha!” Cassara shouted.
CHAPTER XXI
IN THE GUEST HOUSE
“Rojerio Rocha! He has escaped them!” Others took up the cry, and cheers from those along the wall greeted the flying man, cheers of welcome and encouragement. The Indians on the crest were still firing at him. He dodged from side to side as he ran. Now he dropped the white cloth he had carried, glued elbows to his sides, and ran on. He stumbled, fell, regained his feet.
“Help him!” the comandante cried. “Aid him inside, you men!”
The fugitive crashed against the wall. A musket was let down, and he grasped it, and they pulled him up and lifted him over—to see him collapse on the ground breathless, his eyes rolling, clutching at the breast of his cloak as if it pained him to try to breathe.
“He has been hit!” a fray cried; but the man shook his head. They gave him wine, and he drank, and gasped until he got his breath.
“The fiends!” he cursed. “They were holding me—expected to torture me—with Señorita Fernandez—said her father—had been cruel. I managed—to get free of bonds. They will—attack again!”
Even as he spoke the second attack came. Again a throng of savages rushed down the slope while others poured a volley at the wall. The hostiles in the orchard joined in the charge.
They reached the corner of the wall, piled against it, made their way upward in the face of musket flashes and blades. Shrieking chiefs urged them on. One by one the defenders crashed to the ground inside. The ranks closed up. All other parts of the square were abandoned as men rushed to the threatened corner. The man who had escaped the hostiles was forgotten.