"What! you spoke--then--then--there are others? I--I am not here all
alone?"

"Not if you count me," he said, a trace of recklessness in the answer.
"I have n't even a scratch so far as I know. Did they touch you?"

"No; that is, I am not quite sure; it--it was all so horrible I cannot
remember. Who are you? Are you the--the soldier?"

"Yes--I 'm Hamlin. Would you mind telling me how you ever got over
there?"

She straightened up, seemed to notice the heavy revolver in her
fingers, and let it fall to the floor.

"Oh, it is like a dream--an awful dream. I could n't help myself.
When the Mexican rolled off on to the floor, I knew he was dead,
and--and there was his revolver held right out to me in his hand.
Before I realized I had it, and was up here--I--I killed one--he--he
fell in the wheel; I--I can never forget that!"

"Don't try," broke in Hamlin earnestly. "You 're all right," he added,
admiration in his voice. "And so it was you there with the small gun.
I heard it bark, but never knew Gonzales was hit. When did it happen?"

"When--when they fired first. It--it was all smoke out there when I
got to the window; they--they looked like--like wild beasts, and it did
n't seem to me I was myself at all."

The man laughed lightly.