THE ATTACK ON THE MINE.
Flinging his legs over each side of the ladder, Coyote Pete slid to the
ground like a boy sliding down a cellar door.
"I could catch the glint of sunlight on their rifles," he explained.
"The beggars were trying to approach unseen, though, I guess, for they
were sneaking round a neck of woods so as to take advantage of that
arroyo that runs almost up to the mine. Better get busy with that
borer."
And "get busy" they did. Holes were rapidly bored in the stockade, the
apertures being of sufficient size to accommodate comfortably the
muzzle of a rifle. Above each such hole another was bored, to enable
the defenders to see the position of their foes. Although this work
took more than an hour, there was still no sign of the enemy. But they
evidently had a close watch kept on the mine, for a hat elevated on a
long stick above the top of the stockade was promptly riddled with
bullets.
"Jingo!" gasped Jack. "Those fellows mean business."
"What do you suppose they are going to do?" Walt asked Buck Bradley.
The stout showman looked grave.
"This hanging back looks bad," he rejoined. "I guess they are waiting
till dusk so as to try and catch us unprepared. Evidently they figger
they've got us where they want us, and there is no use being in a rush
about finishing us up."
Buck's words were grim, but his expression was grimmer yet. The former
ranch boss had been in many a tough place in his day, but revolving the
situation in his mind he could not call to recollection any more
dangerous circumstances than those in which he now found himself.
"Bottled and corked," was the way he expressed it to Coyote Pete, who
fully shared his apprehensions.
Fortunately, behind the office of the mine, there was a small room well
stocked with rifles and ammunition. This was wise precaution of Mr.
Merrill's, who, knowing the Mexican character to a T, had insisted on
this room being provided in case of strikes or other difficulties.
The store of arms was drawn upon freely, and each of the defenders had
a spare rifle at his side. The weapons were piled by their respective
holes while the besieged awaited the attack. But a hasty dinner was
prepared on the coal-oil stove Of the office, and eaten and digested
before there came any move on the part of Madero's men.
Through the peep-holes a casual inspection showed nothing outside but
the hillside sloping away from the mine, with here and there a clump of
bushes or small, scrubby trees. But every once in a while the grass
would stir, or a clump of bushes would be agitated strangely, as some
concealed form crept up yet closer to the stockade. Evidently, as Buck
had said, the intention of Madero was to "rush" the place.
The mining village now seemed deserted, except for a few forms of women
and children which could be seen flitting about. Evidently most of the
men had joined the insurrectos, hoping to have a share in the loot when
the time came.
"Say, Geisler!" exclaimed Buck Bradley suddenly, "got any steam in the
boiler?"
"Ches. Aboudt forty or fifty pounds. Der fires vos banked. Pud vy?"
"Oh, nothing. I've just got a little plan in my head. Now, Jack,
suppose you and I take a little run to the boiler room and look about
us a bit."
The boy was glad of anything to do to relieve the tension of waiting
for the attack that didn't come. He gladly accompanied the
self-reliant Westerner to the boiler house. They found, as Geisler had
said, that in one of the boilers steam was still up.
"Now let's take a look around here, sonny," said Buck, glancing about
the walls as if in search of something. "Ah! Here we are, that will
do."
He pounced on a big reel of fire hose attached to the wall, as he spoke.
"Fine! Couldn't be better," he continued, as he rapidly unwound it.
"Why, there must be fifty feet or more here. Now let's see. Where is
the blow-off valve of this boiler?"
"This is it, isn't it?" asked Jack, indicating a valve, with
wheel-controlled outlet near the base of the boiler.
"That's it. Now then for a monkey wrench and then we are all ready to
give those greasers the surprise of their lives in case they try an
attack upon this side of the stockade."
"What are you going----"
That was as far as Jack got in his question. As the words left his
lips, there came from without the sharp sound of a shot.
Bang!
"Phew!" whistled Buck. "That's the overture. The performance is about
ter begin."
In the meantime, the members of the party left at the peep-holes by
Buck Bradley and Jack, had been trying their level best to obtain some
inkling of which side the insurrectos meant to storm first. But, for
all the sign the long, waving grass gave, or the bushes imparted, they
might as well have gazed at the sky. Had they not known that the
insurrectos were out there somewhere, they would have deemed the
hillside barren of life.
Suddenly, however, as Coyote Pete's keen eye was sweeping the open
space before the stockade, the grass quite near at hand parted, and a
wiry little Mexican stepped out.
It was a good evidence of the control that Madero exercised over his
men that this fellow, although he must have known he was placing his
life in deadly peril, advanced to within a few feet of the stockade
without a tremor.
Apparently, judging from his expression, he was astonished that no
hostile demonstration came from within. But the defenders had no wish
to sacrifice life needlessly, and refrained from firing upon him.
Suddenly he halted, and raising his voice, cried out in Spanish:
"Will you foolish gringoes surrender and give up the gold peaceably, or
must we attack the mine?"
"Did Madero tell you to ask that?" shouted Pete through his peep-hole.
"Yes; the general demanded that I should offer you this chance for your
lives."
"Then tell the general, with our compliments, that if he thinks he'll
get Mr. Merrill's gold without a fight, he's up against the toughest
proposition he ever tackled."
"As you will, señors. Adios!"
With a wave of his hat, the Mexican ran speedily back down the
hillside, and dived into some bushes. The watchers of the stockade
were of the opinion that the wave of the hat was merely a bit of Latin
extravagance. They soon found out, however, that it had the
significance of a signal. For, as the fellow dropped into cover, the
grass became alive with human forms. Coyote Pete's finger, which had
been trembling upon the trigger, pressed it.
Bang!
It was the first shot of the desperate battle for the defense of the
mine, and the sound that had reached the two in the boiler house.
The report was followed by a series of appalling yells from without the
stockade. Mexicans seemed to spring from every clump of grass and bit
of brush. It was amazing how they could have crept so close without
being detected.
"We can't last five minutes!" gasped Walt, as he gazed out. The lad
fired grimly into the advancing rush, however, and the others stood to
their guns like veterans. Their cheeks were blanched under the tan,
though, and the corners of their mouths tightened. Each one of those
defenders realized the practical hopelessness of their positions.
Suddenly, amid the besiegers' onrushing forms, appeared a figure
mounted upon a superb black horse. The animal curvetted and plunged as
the reports of the rifles of both sides rattled away furiously, but his
rider had him in perfect control.
"There's Ramon, the scoundrel!" roared Pete, gazing at the defiant
figure. "I'll give him a shot for luck."
But for once the plainsman's aim was at fault. The bullet evidently
did not even ruffle the former cattle rustler.
"Ledt me try!" puffed the German ferociously.
He fared no better.
"Bah! Und I thought I vos a goodt shot!" he exploded.
"It ain't that," rejoined Pete superstitiously. "The Mexicans say that
Ramon bears a charmed life, and that only a silver bullet will ever lay
him low."
Before the professor could make any comment Ramon was heard issuing
commands in a sharp voice. He seemed to have the direction of the
attack. Of Madero there was no sign, unless a small figure on a shaggy
pony, far to the rear, was that of the insurrecto leader.
The result of Ramon's command was soon evident. The attackers had not
been prepared for so sharp a defense, and, anxious to lose as few men
as possible, Ramon had ordered them to drop once more into the grass.
This was good strategy, as it was apparently only a matter of time
before the mine defenders would have to surrender, and it was little
use to sacrifice lives in a mad rush against their rifles.
The attack had splintered the stockade in a score of places, but,
thanks to the toughness of the seasoned wood, the bullets that had
penetrated had lost most of their strength. Beyond a few scratches
from flying splinters, none of the defenders were injured.
"What can they be up to?" wondered Pete, as half an hour passed and no
further sign came from the besiegers.
Ramon's figure had now vanished. Perhaps he realized that the fangs of
their enemies were by no means drawn, and deemed it more prudent not to
take chances on the strength of his "charmed life."
And so the time passed. The sun was well on his march toward the
western horizon before there came a move on the part of the enemy, and
when it did come it was a startling one. Taking advantage of every bit
of cover, the astute mestizos had crept around the stockade till they
were in a position exactly behind the defenders. So that, in fact, for
the last half hour, the alert rifles of Coyote Pete and his companions
had been covering emptiness.
A yell as the attackers charged from the direction into which they had
covertly worked themselves apprised the besieged of what had happened.
Bitterly blaming his stupidity in not foreseeing such a move, Pete,
followed by the others, darted across the stockade. As they were
halfway across, however, a dozen or more heads appeared upon the
undefended top.
The insurrectos had determined on a bold rush, and unmolested they had
succeeded in scaling the walls on each other's shoulders.
"Good Lord!" groaned Pete, as he saw.
Despair was in the countenances of the others, but, even as they halted
in dismay at what seemed certain annihilation, a strange thing happened.
With a screaming, earsplitting roar, a white cloud swept from the
direction of the boiler house at the clustering forms on the top of the
stockade.
It was a column of live steam that swept them from their perches, like
dried leaves before a wind.
Buck Bradley's plan had worked with terrible effectiveness. Before the
rush of white-vapor the insurrectos melted away in a screaming, scalded
flurry. In less than two minutes after Jack had turned the steam on,
not a sign of them was to be seen.
"Hooray!" yelled the boys, carried away by the sudden relief of the
strain when it had seemed that all was over. "Hooray! We win!"
"Don't be premature!" admonished Buck gravely, as the column of steam
was shut off. "We ain't out of ther woods yet by a long shot. How
about it, Pete?"
The old plainsman tugged his sun-bleached moustache viciously.
"Why, boys," he declared emphatically, "them reptiles ain't begun ter
fight yet."