Then came the rush. There was only a subdued rustling, as of many feet cautiously planted, and then from the dense fog a horde of the painted demons rushed into the breach left by the shattered door. Their own impetuosity came near being fatal to themselves, for, as the crowd became jammed in the doorway, and entangled in the mass of broken furniture, the clear, strong tones of Canelo rung out the order to fire.
The double volley, delivered at such close quarters, was withering in its effects. The savages fell in piles, almost blocking up the entrance, and the others shrunk back from such a deadly reception. The besieged, led by Canelo, sprung forward to meet them, with machetes, pistols, or clubbed guns. Then came an order for the savages to rush over their dead and close hand to hand.
Christobal Canelo started, as if thunderstruck. The order had been given in pure Castilian, and, moreover, he could almost have sworn that he recognized the voice as that of one whom he had befriended, trusted, and loved!
And then where did an Indian—a Comanche upon the war-path—learn to speak that language so perfectly? And to his braves; could they comprehend him? If so, they must be strange savages.
But he had no further time to ponder over the matter. The savages had rallied, and tearing their dead comrades from the breach, they swarmed into the house, led by a tall, sinewy man, who dashed into the midst of his foes. In vain Canelo strove to meet this person, for he knew that if their chief was slain, the assailants would probably retreat. But the savage ever eluded him, ever kept a crowd between him and the haciendado. He wielded a heavy saber that, while it seemed to shed the blows rained at him, like a magic shield, dealt death or gaping wounds at every stroke.
Several savages had singled out Canelo, and were pressing him hard. Two of their number had fallen before his sword, but he was wounded, and the blood flowed freely. It required all his address and activity to keep from being clenched from behind by his enemies; but then, as he clove down the foremost, he dashed to the wall, where he could no longer be surrounded.
The savages were all around with sabers or machetes, and he was fast failing. Still he met them bravely. A saber laid bare his cheek but the man who dealt the wound went down the next moment with his head cloven in twain.
The tall leader of the savages saw this, and, hissing out a fierce oath, drew his pistol, and, retreating to the wall at a space that was free from combatants, deliberately aimed at the brave Canelo. The latter saw nothing of this, as he desperately struggled with his assailants. Then the finger pressed upon the trigger, and there came a flash, a loud report, and the haciendado sunk at the feet of his foes, with the blood slowly oozing from the little discolored hole in the center of his forehead, a dead man.
His death was noted by a peon, and he raised the cry. It was like depriving a ship in a storm of its rudder, the fall of their leader, and with but one or two exceptions, the besieged threw down their weapons and begged for quarter. But the mercy they received was like that rendered famous in the revolutionary war, as “Tarleton quarter.”
One by one they were cut down, even as they kneeled and implored mercy in the Virgin’s name, and in two minutes after the death of Christobal Canelo the only survivors were they who wore the paint and trappings of Comanche warriors; even those who were dying received a finishing stroke.