A group of about thirty white-clothed forms under big straw sombreros, with bandoleers around their shoulders, came charging out of the brush, their gun muzzles spurting flame and smoke. Lance yelled, “Don’t give an inch, hombres! Pour it on ’em!”
His men responded with a crashing torrent of lead that all but cut the attackers in two. For a brief instant all motion seemed to stand transfixed in the hideous din, and in that instant Lance caught a picture he never forgot. The attackers appeared to hesitate momentarily, then more than two thirds of them bent suddenly at the middle and pitched forward. Others turned and ran back for the brush. Several were limping frantically from the scene. The Yaquentes along the gallery gave a high-pitched yell and renewed their fire. Only a few of the attackers regained the shelter they had left less than a minute before.
Powder smoke hung like a gray blanket between the house and the brush. For a minute the firing of the attackers ceased, then burst forth with a renewed fury that caused the men behind the sandbags to crouch low. A steady, unceasing tattoo of flying lead drummed against the house wall. It seemed it would never stop.
Lance heard the professor’s voice. “Like rain on a tin roof, what?”
“Some storm,” Lance grunted. He lifted his head a trifle to peer above the sandbags. Three bullets instantly drilled holes into his sombrero crown. Lance dropped down with the maximum of haste but he had seen enough to puzzle him.
“That one wagon we placed out there”—he frowned—“it’s only about thirty feet away. I figured it might help slow up a rush. I just saw several men break cover from the brush and run to get behind it. I wonder what they’re up to. If they’re figuring on charging us from there they’ll get a surprise——”
He stopped. An object had been thrown from behind the wagon. Lance saw it skim the top of the sandbags and land among a group of Yaquentes. It looked like a tin can, but…
And then Lance didn’t see the tin can any more. It abruptly disappeared in a burst of white fire and a deafening detonation. A cloud of thick, yellowish smoke enveloped the gallery. Small chunks of rock exploded viciously in all directions.
Lance exclaimed, “My God! They’ve made bombs and——”
He had no time to say more. A tomato can came hurtling through the air to land on the gallery. All in a split instant Lance saw the top had been tied down with hemp cord. From the opening where the can had been cut a length of fuse burned with a fierce sputtering sound. Lance pounced on the can, seized it, hurled it with all his might in the direction of the wagon behind which the bomb throwers were sheltered. He saw it land beneath the wagon. BOOM! Smoke and flame enveloped the wagon. Men rolled on the earth. Several scrambled frantically for the shielding brush.
A cheer ran along the gallery. By now the smoke had cleared. Several forms lay silent and bleeding behind the sandbags. “That’s the game!” Lance yelled. “Throw those cans back when they come over!” He glanced toward the wagon. It was tilted crazily on one side. One wheel was missing. Lance saw a movement up near the front of the vehicle. He thumbed one swift shot, not knowing whether or not he scored. He heard a sudden exclamation from the professor. Jones had gone the color of ashes. One hand was clapped to his forehead in sudden dismay.
“What’s the matter?” Lance yelled through the din of gunfire. “Are you hit?”
The professor shook his head. He lowered the hand from his forehead, and Lance saw that his brow was beaded with tiny beads of perspiration. Jones looked sick. He gulped and stammered, “My—my Echinopsis gregoriana. Forgot all about it—all this excitement. If anything—should happen—great loss—to the world.”
He glanced fearfully over his shoulder, then a look of relief passed over his face as he saw the small wooden tub still intact on the recessed window sill. Heedless of the flying lead spattering against the adobe wall, the professor started for his beloved plant with the intention of removing it to the interior of the house.
“Professor!” Lance warned. “Stay down. You’ll be hit!”
The warning came too late. Another tomato can came sailing in behind the sandbags. It bounced once on the gallery floor, then disappeared in a thunderous roar. Even as the smoke spread and billowed along the gallery Lance saw Jones stagger back and fall flat. Bits of rock rattled along the gallery floor and walls. Two Yaquentes were down. Tom Piper had been picked up as though hurled by some giant hand and dashed against the adobe wall to fall in a crumpled heap.
Lance moved swiftly through the drifting powder smoke and reached the professor’s side. Jones was already staggering up. “Not hit,” he gasped. “Force of—explosion—floored me—that’s all. Must get my Echinopsis gregoriana—place of safety.”
He broke away from Lance’s restraining hands and started toward the window sill for his plant. Then he stopped short. An anguished moan left his lips. Bullets were whining all around him, but he didn’t seem to notice them. He was speechless now. There wasn’t any window sill there. The whole window was gone. Left only was a gaping hole in the adobe wall. The professor’s plant had been blown to bits. Not even the slightest bit of earth in which it had been planted remained in sight though a few slivers of splintered wooden tub lay on the gallery floor.
For a brief moment the professor swayed unsteadily like one who has received a death blow. Suddenly his face reddened; his features became contorted with rage; his whole body stiffened. “The dirty blackguard scoundrels!” he stormed furiously, shaking a menacing fist toward the brush and trees. “They should be taught a lesson, what? By Christopher! I’ll show them a thing or two! Destroy the greatest discovery of the century, will they? Not and escape unscathed, the low-lifed, hell-hound mongrels! Not while my name is Ulysses Zarathustra Jones!”
And in that minute the professor went thoroughly berserk. Seizing his gun from the gallery floor, he leaped over the sandbags and charged the enemy single-handed! Lance leaped to catch him but missed. “Professor!” he yelled. “Come back! You’ll be killed! Oh, you fool, you!”
Behind him he heard Katherine’s wailing. “Uncle Uly, come back!”
But their pleas accomplished nothing. Deaf to all entreaty, with but a single thought dominating his movements—that of annihilating the enemy—Jones dashed recklessly into the very teeth of the flame-spitting brush, bullets kicking up sand and gravel all around him as he plunged on!
XXVI The Dust Settles
Lance glanced in sudden dismay at the white men on the gallery. Their faces reflected the hopeless thought in his own mind. He snapped grimly, “Get ready for a lot of hell, fellers! We can’t let him go it alone.”
But the Yaquentes on the gallery had already reached that decision. Wild, joyful, bloodcurdling yells left their throats as they leaped erect and vaulted over the sandbags, eager to catch up with the professor, in the belief that Jones was leading them in a charge against the enemy!
This was what Lance’s Yaquentes wanted, the sort of action for which they had been impatiently waiting. Straight into a hailstone of fire they moved like some relentless, avenging juggernaut. For just an instant Lance stood as one paralyzed by the sight of the white-clothed forms, their guns spurting lances of flame as they shouted wild battle cries and closed in toward the enemy. Then Lance moved. “C’mon, waddies,” he yelled, “we can’t let the Yaquentes get there first!”