“WHO WILL BE FOOD FOR THE VULTURES!”
Of the two men, one advanced. The other lay writhing in pain on the
ground, but his place was taken by twenty more, forty more, eighty more,
a hundred, two hundred. They emerged from every bush, from behind trees,
they arose from the long grass, they appeared as if by magic. On they
came, yelling, screaming; swarthy faces distorted, the lust of battle in
their eyes.
“Here they come, boys! Steady! Keep cool and fight, _fight_, FIGHT!”
screamed Mr. Ryder to the men in the trenches.
His instructions were answered by a mighty cheer; a war-cry that sent a
thrill down Jack Straw’s back.
All thoughts of danger, all thoughts of everything but the fight, were
driven from the lad’s brain by that cheer. In his hands he gripped a
rifle. About his shoulders were two hundred rounds of ammunition. With
these he must fight, _fight_, FIGHT!
He was surprised to find how calm and collected he felt as he crouched
there in the first trench, shoulder to shoulder with a rurale on one
side and Harvey Carroll on the other. Over his head whistled a thousand
screaming messengers of death. They plunged into the earthy embankment
in front of him and threw dirt and pebbles into his eyes and mouth.
They whistled past his cheeks and thumped against the wall of the power
station behind him. Yet for all he was calm, insanely calm, it seemed to
him.
Carefully and methodically he slipped a shell from his cartridge belt
and held it between his teeth while he threw open the breech block of
his rifle. Without any apparent haste he slipped the brass thing home,
closed the breech and put the piece to his shoulder. Then with the utmost
deliberation he selected one of those ugly distorted faces for his target
and taking careful aim pulled the trigger.
Thus did the boy load and fire, load and fire, a dozen times while the
screaming mob came on. All along the double line of trenches, workmen
and soldiers were doing the same as he. And behind him the battery of
French machine guns, two on the roof and the others against the wall of
the power station, spat vehemently four hundred times a minute. Yet with
all this stubborn defense the motley mob advanced. They rushed, shrieking
and screaming, across the valley bottom toward the barbed-wire barricade,
pausing only to reload and fire. They came on, on, on, sombreros and
jackets flapping, red lips parted and white teeth showing like a pack of
bloodthirsty wolves. Two men reached the barbed-wire fence, one began to
climb but he stopped at the second strand and his bullet-riddled body
hung on the fence for the rest of the battle. The other hacked away with
a _machette_, trying hard to sever the wires. Jack was surprised to see
how long he remained exposed to the grueling fire before he fell.
Others reached the fence; one man clutched the top strand and vaulted
clear, but he did not stand on his feet when he landed. Another climbed
a post only to pitch backward, bowling over two men directly behind him.
But they came so thick and fast after that, that Jack could only see them
as a mass. They pressed against the barrier like cattle; they raged, they
cursed, they screamed, while the bullets from the machine guns mowed them
down like rye before a scythe. But the press was too great! The fence
came down with a crash and the way to the plant was cleared for them!
A groan arose from the trenches when the men saw this, for the Necaxa
force was outnumbered five to one in spite of the havoc of the machine
guns. Jack’s spirit sank with the rest, for he realized that the end
was near unless they could stop the rush of that bloodthirsty mob. But
suddenly he heard a voice above the roar of battle and looking in the
direction from whence it came, he saw Mr. Ryder standing exposed on the
embankment of the first trench.
“Boys, boys!” he shouted; “look overhead! The vultures! Shall they feed
on us or the greasers to-night?” Jack looked aloft, there in the blue
heavens were two huge birds circling slowly around over the battle
field. It was dramatic! It was hideous! Others looked, too, and the grim
specter had its effect.
“The greasers! the greasers! let them be food for the vultures! Make
them carrion, fellows!” was the cry that went up from the trenches, and
some men in their anger stood bolt upright to load and fire. The rain of
bullets that swept down the grassy slope was annihilating. The oncoming
mob stopped! The rebels’ dogged rush was checked! For five minutes they
tried to hold their ground against the withering fire. Then suddenly they
broke and ran for cover.
[Illustration: “They pressed against the barrier like cattle”]
At this a shout of triumph went up from the trenches. The men all stood
upright then and pumped bullets after the scattered force of José Cerro.
Jack discarded his rifle entirely and drawing his revolver leapt to the
top of the breastworks and fired, round after round at the tattered
brigade that was hurrying across the valley, until the last of the
Mexicans was lost in the forest. Then he paused and as he wiped the
perspiration from his brow, he remarked to no one in particular:
“By crackey, for excitement this beats all.”
Harvey Carroll overheard him and smiled. “So it appeals to you, eh?” he
queried.
“Appeals to me? No, not exactly, but nevertheless it’s exciting! How long
did it last? About fifteen minutes, I guess.”
But Jack was disillusioned on this point when he looked at his watch. He
could hardly believe it but he had been in the midst of death for two
hours and had come through it all without a single scratch. This was
not true of others, however. From here and there in the trenches came
groans of anguish, telling plainly that more than one of the murderous
soft-nosed Mexican bullets had found its mark. Jack saw many motionless
forms too, and he knew that the power plant would be short handed for a
while.
The lad did not have long to view the situation, however, for soon
he heard the voice of the engineer giving commands in English and
Spanish. These were to the effect that every man should get busy and
repair the broken-down barricade before the rebels rallied and began
another assault. Rifles were discarded immediately and axes and shovels
substituted. With these, soldiers and workmen alike began to reset the
broken-down posts and restring the wires. Jack and Mr. Ryder did their
part. They worked side by side with the rest, in spite of the fact that
they had been longer than twenty-four hours without sleep.
Once Jack paused in his work and standing erect, viewed the valley. Dead
men lay everywhere. They were piled thick along the line of fence and
scattered broadcast from the bottom of the slope to the edge of the wood,
and though the bodies were not yet cold the vultures were feeding. The
scavengers of Mexico were already at work clearing the battle field.
As soon as the fence was repaired and reinforced with hundreds of feet
of extra barbed wire which the workmen brought from the storehouse,
Mr. Ryder appointed a hospital squad and a burial squad from amongst
the infantry men. They were detailed to go across the valley gathering
up the dead and the wounded. When this was well under way the engineer
returned to the plant, to look after the hospital work there. Lyman,
Carroll and several other Americans who were not needed inside the plant
at that time, had gathered up the injured and taken them inside a big
well-lighted toolhouse.
Mr. Ryder glanced about the room; he studied the faces of the wounded and
scrutinized the attendants closely. Finally, he turned to Jack and said:
“Say, son, have you seen my assistant? Nedham, I mean. I haven’t seen him
since last night. I was looking for him in the trenches, but couldn’t
find him. Thought maybe he was wounded early and brought here.”
Jack could not recall having seen Nedham. So Mr. Ryder called Lyman.
“Hi, Lyman, come here.”
Lyman made his way between the prostrated forms to his chief’s side.
“Have you seen Nedham, lately?” queried the engineer.
“Why—er—ah, why I think the last glimpse I caught of him was when the
three-inch fieldpiece opened up. He came through the operating room.
Said he was on his way to the roof to look after some machine guns up
there. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Well,” said Mr. Ryder, “that’s a peculiar place for my assistant when I
need him alongside of me all the time. If you see him again tell him I
want him. He’ll find me here with the wounded.”
Jack was surprised to find out how many had been injured in the battle.
There were more than a score of workmen and soldiers stretched out on the
toolhouse floor, and the few Americans available had all they could do
to care for the wants of the wounded. Jack noted that one of the busiest
of the attendants was the Indian runner whom he had left in his room
before the battle started. The red man was going about among the wounded
with a gourd of water in his right hand. His left was bandaged tightly
across his breast and entirely useless because of José Cerro’s bullet.
Jack learned later on that the messenger had entered the trenches at the
opening of the battle and all through the conflict had handled a huge
six shooter which he had found in Mr. Ryder’s cottage.
The youth and the engineer turned to with the rest and tried to make
things more comfortable for the sufferers. They had not been at work
long, however, before Arthur Strong, the tall, light-haired day operator,
came rushing in. The moment he saw Mr. Ryder he began to shout:
“The lines are down! The lines are down! Mexico City’s service is cut
off.”