The machine and the air about it was a mass of flames. Black figures were leaping from its platform.
"Rifle bullet hit gas tank," muttered Charley dreamily. "Explosion. Can't work nights. Keep her going daytimes, Walt. Enough men unhurt to do that. I'm tired, awfully tired. Think I'll go to sleep pretty soon," and the lad, weak from loss of blood, sank unconscious to the ground.
When Charley opened his eyes it was to find himself in his cot, his arm neatly bound in splints, the sun shining in the open tent flaps, and Walter sitting on a box by his side.
"How did I get here?" he asked in wonder. "The last I remember was the machine being in flames."
"You keeled over in a faint," Walter replied cheerfully. "Loss of blood, I guess."
"Was there any one killed?" Charley demanded anxiously.
"We thought Bratton was for a while, but the bullet hit a rib and glanced out again, making only a flesh wound. He'll be all right again in a week. The three Spaniards on the machine got pretty badly burned, but not dangerously so. Luckily for them, the ditch was there. They jumped right off the machine into it. The engineer by some miracle escaped without a burn. Sicavia, the Spaniard that was wounded in the leg, will be around again in a few days. He has only got a flesh wound. I guess that's all, except we buried that dead gunman this morning."
"The machine, is it running?" Charley questioned eagerly.
"Yes, I got them to start her up again this morning. But we can't run her nights for we have neither lights nor a night crew."