“Now,” cried Robbins, suddenly, as our horses cleared the planking.
So we drew the beasts upon their very haunches and sprang to the ground, and, sheltered behind their weary carcasses, faced about.
It was indeed time, for the squad of rough riders had just started to cross—indeed, the crash of horses’ hoofs upon the bridge marked our turning at bay.
We opened fire instantly—the old battle spirit surged over me, and human life was held in cheap account. Why should I care when these men hunted us like wild beasts, determined to slay us, or, worse still, imprison us in their filthy dungeons on a diet of atrocities?
The rattle of firearms was merry enough, and as both of us were extraordinarily good shots, we created quite a little havoc among them.
Horses leaped and burst over the rail, carrying their riders in some cases with them—men shrieked and swore and plunged about, as though crazed with fear; taken in all, it was a dreadful affair, which I sincerely trust I may never see the like of again.
Robbins had potted the old general the first thing, just as he promised—at least, he shot his horse, and that beast promptly tumbled over the rail, so that the last I saw of Toreado he was floating down stream, screaming for help.
It seems he did not drown, but lived to rule the little republic just seven months, when he was shot from ambush, and a new president took up the reins where he dropped them; but, of course, he found an empty treasury—they always do.
When we saw that the pursuit had been effectually brought to a sudden stop, we once more flung ourselves in the saddle, gave a cowboy whoop, and were off down the road.
So far as I can remember, I do not think we actually killed any of the Toreado possé, granting that those in the river got out safe and sound, but their ardor was effectually cooled, and they hunted ex-presidents no more that day.