Mead and Ellhorn were trying to batter down the door, but it was
strongly built and had not yielded to their shoulders. Throwing down
his empty rifle, Tuttle ran into the _portal_, thrust Ellhorn to one
side as if he had been a boy, and lunged against the door with all his
ox-like weight. Mead threw himself against it at the same instant, and
it cracked, split, and flew into splinters.

The three big Texans, each with a revolver in either hand, surged
through the opening. The Mexicans met them in mid-floor, and the room
was full of the whirr of flying bullets, the thud of bullets against
the walls, the spat of bullets upon human flesh. The officers rushed
forward, their guns blazing streams of fire, and Dysert and his men
backed toward the corner. Mead emptied both of his revolvers and,
pressing the leader closely, raised one of them to batter him over the
head. Dysert threw up his hands, exclaiming, "We give up!" and the
battle was over.

On the floor were the bodies of four Mexicans, either dead or badly
wounded. Dysert and three of his followers were still alive, although
each had been hurt. Tuttle, besides the gash in his cheek, had a
bullet in his left arm, and Ellhorn a wound in his thigh. Mead's hat
and clothing had been pierced, but his body was untouched.

They sent for physicians to attend to the wounded Mexicans and, having
handcuffed their prisoners, hurried them to the jail. As Simmons led
the men from the sheriff's office and the three friends were left
alone, Mead turned to Tuttle.

"Tom," he said, "I 'm sure sorry I struck you just now. I was so mad I
hardly knew what I was doing. You 'd been acting queer, and when I