ANOTHER VISITOR
The dawn!
Some trooper started the cheer when the first faint red streak began
to show through the fog, and the others took it up, until all the
defenders at the mission were hailing the day except the frailes busy
with their prayers.
The dawn meant that no more could the hostiles approach under cover
of darkness, make unexpected attacks in certain quarters, or slip up
unnoticed until within a few feet of the walls. Now they could be
observed easily on every side, and an open charge could be met by a
concentrated defence.
As the day broadened and the fog began to lift a constant pattering
of musket slugs beat against the walls, and flaming arrows were still
being discharged. Neophytes carried food and water and wine to the men
on the wall and at the windows of the buildings, and they ate and drank
as they fought, trying to pick off enemies when head or leg or arm
showed.
Every boulder had a hostile behind it, every pile of debris, and they
were intrenched behind the wall of the orchard, from which comparative
security they showered bullets against those of the mission.
Dead and wounded gentiles and traitorous neophytes dotted the ground
on every side of the plaza. Eight defenders were stretched in a row
near the wall, victims of the conspiracy. More than a score wounded
had been quartered in the church, where the frailes attended to their
injuries as well as they could, for the church was where the last stand
would be made if necessary.
A nervous, anxious _comandante_ paced the plaza, scarcely speaking to
his men. Ensign Sanchez, from a position near the end of the wall, had
glass to eye, searching El Camino Real for a cloud of dust that would
tell of the approach of the Governor and his force, fearing as he
looked that it would not be possible for his excellency to arrive until
the end of the day.
A great deal depended on what had transpired at San Luis Rey de
Francia. There was a chance the Governor would have to stop and give
aid there and could not continue to San Diego de Alcalá. It was certain
the hostiles knew the Governor was coming, and would attempt to gain
possession of the mission before his arrival.
Sergeant Cassara still sat against the wall of the storehouse, and
Gonzales, down on his knees beside him, was holding a wine cup while
the sergeant drank. Gonzales had suffered a minor wound, but made
little of it.
“Together, we have not lost enough blood to dye a lady’s handkerchief,”
he said. “’Twas the knock on the head made you faint, sergeant mine.”
“Carlos Cassara to be knocked on the head with a club!” the sergeant
groaned. “I shall go mad!”
“Another man would have had his skull crushed by the blow. How feel you
now?”
“Excellent well, good pirate, except my neck be so stiff I cannot turn
my head.”
“Hah! Dost want to look behind you to pick out a way to run?”
“Now, by all the saints----”
“’Twas but a jest, Carlos, my friend. You are able to fight again?”
“Let the dogs but attack and I’ll take my place beside you,” the
sergeant boasted.
“You have seen no more ghosts?”
“’Twas no ghost! ’Twas Captain Fly-by-Night himself, may the imps of
evil seize upon him! Laugh, and you like! I saw him, by the light of
the firebrand, standing in the plaza, pistol in hand.”
“We’ll say no more of it,” Gonzales proposed. “’Tis no thing to cause
argument between friends. What is a ghost? Hah!”
The door of the guest house was thrown open, and the giant Pedro
stalked out, followed by Señorita Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo.
It was plain to be seen both women had been weeping. The _comandante_
hurried toward them, cap in hand, and spoke with them for a few
moments, then conducted them along the wall toward the church.
“Displaying the women folk,” Cassara whispered to his friend. “’Twill
make the men fight better. What a girl that is!”
“’Twere hard to die as this Rojerio Rocha died, knowing death robbed
him of such treasure,” Gonzales replied.
“He is dead, then?”
“It is assumed so. Why would hostiles hold him prisoner when they are
running wild to kill other good men?”
“Why didn’t they slay him at the rancho with Señor Lopez and the
others? Answer me that!” said Cassara. “How does it happen this
Fly-by-Night got the women from the ranch-house and fetched them here?
Answer me that! Why does this girl gasp and say it is too horrible,
yet give no details? Reply to me concerning that! Hah! When this row
is at an end there’ll be explanations enough to occupy a year of his
excellency’s time!”
“The women are going into the church to pray,” Gonzales announced, for
lack of anything better to say. “’Tis well. As for me, I do my praying
as I fight. It is an excellent custom. I noticed a fray as dawn broke
doing the same thing. Load and fire--then on his knees--arise--load
and fire again. He kept it up for half an hour.”
“The bells of the mission rang as usual this morning, I noticed,”
Gonzales said.
“And did you hear the fiends yell and double their volleys at the same
time? Hah! Drown the sound of mission bells by shrieks and shouts?
They’ll ring down the centuries, my good pirate--ring either in fact
or fancy as long as two chunks of adobe cling together! Hah! I grow
poetical, pirate! Is it a sign of approaching death?”
“It is a sign of approaching lunacy,” Gonzales answered, and stood to
his feet to watch Señorita Anita and her _duenna_ as they came from the
church and crossed the plaza to the guest house again, heads bowed and
hands clasped, a fray behind them, the _comandante_ hovering near.
The crest of the hill behind the mission flamed red suddenly as a
volley was fired. The cries of the besiegers were redoubled. The
_comandante_ and the ensign called commands. Gonzales picked up musket
and hurried to the wall, and Sergeant Cassara got slowly upon his feet,
balanced himself dazedly against the storehouse wall for a moment, then
clutched his own musket and staggered weakly after his friend.
From all sides came the rain of bullets, while over the crest of the
hill poured charging hostiles in a mad rush toward the plaza. Others
remained at the crest and covered the charge with volleys, keeping the
top of the wall clear until those concerned in the assault were within
striking distance.
Then the top of the wall burst into flame, and the charge hesitated
for an instant, recoiled, gathered courage and continued. Once more
hostiles and defenders fought hand-to-hand with pistols and swords and
knives.
More dead were stretched beside the wall inside the plaza, more dotted
the ground outside. Additional wounded shrieked or groaned in pain.
Half a dozen savages invaded the plaza, to be caught in a corner as in
a trap and exterminated. The assault failed, as had the previous ones,
but it had proved costly to the defenders.
Now there was quiet for an hour, except for the continual shots fired
by hostiles under cover. Frailes worked frantically with the wounded.
More ammunition was distributed. Ensign Sanchez swept El Camino Real
with his glass, and turned away disconsolate. The _comandante_ walked
from post to post, cheering his men, his face contradicting the words
he spoke.
“A few more charges like that,” Gonzales was saying, “and there’ll not
be enough of us left to make a defence. No gentile had brains enough
to cover an advance from the crest like that. Hah! If ever I meet this
renegade who leads them----”
“The mere thought of standing before him makes me strong again,”
Cassara replied. “I pray both of us will have pistols empty and be
forced to use naked steel.”
A fusillade interrupted him, a renewal of war cries smote the ears
of those in the plaza. Men raised weapons to fire, expecting another
charge. And over the crest of the hill fled a man who waved a white
cloth above his head and plunged down toward the mission.
“A white man! Don’t fire! A white man!” _comandante_ and ensign were
shouting.
Now the crest was alive with Indians, who fired repeatedly at the
fleeing figure. Some gave chase until bullets from the wall cut them
down. On and on raced the fugitive toward the promised shelter of the
mission.
“’Tis this Rojerio Rocha!” Cassara shouted.