CHAPTER VI

THE CONDITION IN THE COACH

Mechanically--scarcely conscious of the action--the Sergeant slipped
fresh cartridges into the hot rifle chamber, swept the tumbled hair out
of his eyes with his shirt sleeve, and stared into the night. He could
hardly comprehend yet that the affair was ended, the second attack
repulsed. It was like a delirium of fever; he almost expected to see
those motionless bodies outstretched on the grass spring up, yelling
defiance. Then he gripped himself firmly, realizing the truth--it was
over with for the present; away off there in the haze obscuring the
river bank those indistinct black smudges were fleeing savages, their
voices wailing through the night. Just in front, formless, huddled
where they had fallen, were the bodies of dead and dying, smitten
ponies and half-naked men. He drew a deep breath through clinched
teeth, endeavoring to distinguish his comrades.

The interior of the coach was black, and soundless, except for some
one's swift, excited breathing. As he extended his cramped leg to the
floor he touched a motionless body. Not until then had he realized the
possibility of death also within. He felt downward with one hand, his
nerves suddenly throbbing, and his finger touched a cold face--the
Mexican. It must have been that last volley, for he could distinctly
recall the sharp bark of Gonzales' revolver between his own shots.

"The little devil," he muttered soberly. "It was a squarer death than
he deserved. He was a game little cock."