A group of men, evidently officers, poured forth a flood of Spanish, and energetically waved for them to retire. The general in command of the garrison, a fine military-looking figure, gaily uniformed, and mounted on a coal black horse, spoke to an aide, who promptly began riding toward them.
But he did not reach their side.
With an abruptness that caused the boys fairly to gasp with dismay, a terrific cannonading started up from the direction of the hills. And, at the same instant, thousands of cavalrymen, surrounding the town, advanced far enough to open a heavy rifle fire on the breastworks and trenches.
The attack was so violent and unexpected that the three for a few seconds felt too bewildered to make any attempt to flee from the scene.
The Federal cannon began to boom with reports which seemed to jar them from toes to the crown of their heads. The steady din of crackling rifles and the crash of bursting shells dropping near the trenches and breastworks speedily worked the mustangs into a frenzy of fear. But for Cranny Beaumont’s great strength and acrobatic ability he would have been flung from his seat when Tom’s horse suddenly bolted.
Bob Somers, after a moment’s inaction, had fully recovered his presence of mind.
“Get behind the house over yonder, Tom!” he yelled.
Tom Clifton heeded his words. Riding at a furious pace, they dashed up to a white adobe casa, which stood in a neglected field, overrun with mesquite, and sought temporary shelter at the rear.
Breathless and fighting desperately to control their mounts, the lads passed through some thrilling moments. Clouds of whitish smoke from the cannons and rifles floated over the trenches. Little puffs of the same color, rising straight up in the air, spotted the distant hills. Showers of earth, dust, and fragments of bushes were continually marking the places where shells had fallen.
All these things and more the three lads observed when they had mastered the horses, and dared to peer cautiously around the weather-beaten walls.