The dense mass of swarthy, powerful men, swaying to and fro, wielding the deadly weapons they had been familiar with from childhood; yelling, cursing, cheering and blaspheming like a horde of demons fresh let loose from pandemonium; the long black hair floating around their fierce, inflamed faces with every movement; the weapons flashing around them, clashing together until tiny showers of sparks gritted from the steel, falling swiftly, to rise again, gleaming a dull red, while the ruby drops of life-blood trickled from the edge or point; the shrieks and moans of the wounded wretches as they are trampled ruthlessly under foot; the falling forms of those who are stricken unto death in their tracks, or tottering away from the melee to fall in some unoccupied spot, where they can die undisturbed, save by the terrible din; while the burning house roars in concert, casting its ruddy light over the conflict, revealing every phase in all its details, and the crash of the heavy walls, seem in keeping with the fall of man.
Oh, what pen could portray such a scene? The dreadful interest of the whole would absorb the particulars.
Foremost among the Melladios was the form of the man who had betrayed the Scarlet Shoulders—he who had enacted the part of spy to lull their suspicions—Sylva Cohecho. Sayosa recognized him, and divining the true part he had played, strove to encounter him to reward his treachery. But whether by accident or design, in this he was baffled, for sometime, as was also Lucas Planillas.
The traitor seemed to bear a charmed life, and as his long, powerful arms wielded a heavy sword, he cut down or beat off all who attacked him, until at length Marcos found himself face to face with the spy.
“Accursed dog, I have met you at last, and now you will never play the spy again!” hissed the young miner, as he aimed a heavy, downright blow at his foe, but which slid harmlessly from the machete of Cohecho.
“Bah! you crow loud for a chicken that has not yet grown his spurs,” taunted the ruffian, as he returned the compliment. “Señor Estevan Despierto will not have you for a rival with ’na Carlita, after to-night.”
“I shall live to see the coyotes poisoned by your carcass, at any rate.”
The tumult was constantly increasing in the city, and was rapidly nearing the scene of the conflict; but the combatants did not heed that. The long-smothered rage and rivalry between the partisans had now broken bounds, and it must be a strong barrier that would be able to stay its course. Although blood had been spilled upon more than one occasion by the factions, it was only in solitary instances, settled rather as a duel between enemies than a partisan affair. But now the revolt had come to a head, and nothing but the complete defeat of one party could check the riots, unless, indeed, a military force should arrive sufficiently strong to compel peace—an event that was far from likely.
At this point of the contest, a crowd of armed men arrived upon the scene, and, with loud shouts of “Los Rayas forever!” “Down with the Melladios!” they plunged into the melee, and the next minute the enemy broke, and fled in every direction, darting into the gloom that was rendered more intense by the contrast with the ruddy glow of the still burning building, closely pursued by the victorious miners.
The rescuing party of Scarlet Shoulders who had arrived so opportunely, had been closely followed by the police and military force; but these prudently awaited until the battlefield was comparatively clear, when they boldly advanced and arrested several of the victors and a few wounded. But the cry for rescue was quickly set up, and the miners promptly rallied, with wild yells, and charged the troops. These latter worthies, deeming valor the better part of discretion, abandoned their captives and fled for their lives, seeing the folly of attempting a resistance.