He sprang upwards and caught the brave leader by the throat.
Instinctively the followers turned to the aid of their leader.
The bag fell with a musical jingle from the wagon to the ground.
The driver and the leader clenched tightly, and then followed the bag, rolling from the wagon to the plain.
As soon as the rifles of the attacking men were lowered, the guards made a rapid rush upon them.
A cheer rang out upon one side, a loud shout of defiance from the other, and then the two parties closed in a wild fight.
Rifle and pistol, bullet and blade were crashing and contending, and blood flowed from cruel wounds.
The plunging of the steeds, the hoarse and vindictive shouts of the riders, the screams of the wounded and dying men rang out in a demoniac chorus, and with such music above them the leader and the driver still clung to each other, rolling fairly under the hoofs of the plunging steeds, in their desperate encounter.
There was a wild shriek of mortal agony, as the iron-shod hoof of a madly plunging steed crashed through the brain of the unfortunate driver, and then the leader leaped to his feet, heated and half worn out, but still full of energetic command.
“I’m here!” he shouted, for well did he know that the sound of his ringing blows would encourage his men. “Drive them from the field!”