In the wall of the building across the way he saw a large gaping hole, shattered glass and a partly demolished balcony. From the windows came puffs of smoke.
The Tacoma lad grasped the situation on the instant. The horses, rendered unmanageable, had taken fright and bolted. He experienced a distinct feeling of relief. At any rate, it seemed to prove that neither his companions nor any of the Mexicans had been injured. And now he was forced to think of his own plight. Without a horse, and separated from the others, what was to be done?
“First of all see if I can put out that fire,” he decided.
One look inside the building, however, showed him the futility of any attempt to fight the rapidly increasing flames. On the lower floor every piece of woodwork seemed to be ablaze. Red tongues of flames crackled and sputtered—the smoke constantly rolled forth in greater volumes.
“It’s a goner!” gasped Cranny. “Hello!” His ears had just caught the sound of steadily marching feet, mixed in with a musical jingle. He looked down the street, to see a long line of Federal soldiers and several pack-trains of mules, drawing machine guns and ammunition, passing an intersection.
Cries of “Viva Mexico!” shouted in rough, bawling voices, distracted Cranny’s attention for the moment from the peril of his situation. Here and there in the distance people were again daring to venture forth into the streets, though a hail of bullets occasionally smashed against the buildings, and the reports of bursting shells still sounded at intervals.
“Whew! It’s certainly a big risk, stayin’ here!” muttered Cranny. “What an awful shame I’ve lost my horse!” He looked anxiously about, hoping to see some signs of his companions. “An’ certainly some risk goin’ away. If I did, they’d sure get back the very next minute—Julius Cæsar! I don’t understand what can be keepin’ ’em!”
But for the distant roar of the Federal and Constitutionalists’ artillery, and the steady popping of rifles, an unnatural quietness seemed to hover about. Pacing in front of the big cottonwoods, he often gazed at the burning building across the way. The street was filled with a thick yellowish smoke and showers of sparks fell about him. An adjoining shed caught fire.
It seemed very strange to be witnessing a fire with no effort made to fight it.
“What a great country,” he mused. “I wonder how the scrap’s goin’? The rebs certainly won’t have any picnic capturin’ this old town. By George! I’d like to steal out to the firin’ lines—yes, sir—an’, but for us, I guess Ralph Edmunds would have been there long ago.”