There appeared not the slightest chance of escape. A death, certain as cruel—sudden, terrible to contemplate—stared me in the face. I saw no way of avoiding it. I had no thought of there being a possibility to do so—no thought of anything, save selling my life as dearly as I could.
Before falling, I should make a hecatomb of my cowardly assassins.
I saw no pistols or other firearms in their hands—nothing but knives and machetés. They could only reach me from the front; and, before they could close upon me, I felt certain of being able to discharge every chamber of my two revolvers. At least half a dozen of my enemies were doomed to die before me.
I was in a splendid position for defence. The house against which I had been brought to bay was built of adobés, with walls full three feet thick. The door was indented to a depth of at least two. I stood with my back against it, the jambs on both sides protecting me. My position was that of the badger in the barrel attacked by terriers.
How long I might have been permitted to hold it is a question I will not undertake to answer. No doubt it would have depended upon the courage of my assailants, and the stimulus supplied by that patriotic cry still shouted out, “Muera el Americano!”
But none of those who were shouting had reached that climax of recklessness, to rush upon the certain death which I stood ready to deal out.
They obstructed the doorway in front, and in a close threatening phalanx—like a pack of angry hounds holding a stag at bay, the boldest fearing to spring forward.
Despite the knowledge that it was a terrible tragedy, I could not help fancying it a farce: so long and carefully did my assailants keep at arm’s length.
Still more like a burlesque might it have appeared to a spectator, as I fell upon the broad of my back—kicking up my heels upon the door-stoup!