"Twenty-five more men at the Puerta," shouted the Colonel. In a few minutes half of the new men galloped out of their cuartel and took the eastern road. The near ends of the dust lines were now lost to view behind a swell of ground. "Why don’t you send them all, Don Petronilo?" I yelled. "Because, my young friend, a whole company of _colorados_ is riding down that arroyo. You can’t see them from there, but I can." He, had no sooner spoken than a rider whirled around the corner of the house, pointing back over his shoulder to the south, whence he had come. "They’re coming that way, too," he cried. "Thousands! Through the other pass! Redondo had only five men on guard! They took them prisoner and got into the valley before he knew it!" "_Valgame Dios!_" muttered Don Petronilo. We turned south. Above the umber rise of desert loomed a mighty cloud of white dust, shining in the sun, like the biblical pillar of smoke. "The rest of you fellows get out there and hold them off!" The last twenty-five leaped to their saddles and started southward. Then suddenly the great gate of the walled square belched men and horses—men without rifles. The disarmed _gente_ of Salazar! They milled around as if in a panic. "Give us our rifles!" they shouted. "Where’s our ammunition?" "Your rifles are in the cuartel," answered the Colonel, "but your cartridges are out there killing _colorados_!" A great cry went up. "They’ve taken away our arms! They want to murder us!" "How can we fight, man? What can we do without rifles?" screamed one man in Don Petronilo’s face. "Come on, _compañeros_! Let’s go out and strangle ’em with our hands, the—_colorados_!" yelled one. Five struck spurs into their horses, and sped furiously toward the Puerta—without arms, without hope. It was magnificent! "We’ll all get killed!" said another. "Come on!" And the other forty-five swept wildly out on the road to Santo Domingo. The twenty-five recruits that had been ordered to hold the southern side had ridden out about half a mile, and there stopped, seeming uncertain what to do. Now they caught sight of the disarmed fifty galloping for the mountains. "The _compañeros_ are fleeing! The _compañeros_ are fleeing!" For a moment there was a sharp exchange of cries. They looked at the dust cloud towering over them. They thought of the mighty army of merciless devils who made it. They hesitated, broke—and fled furiously through the chaparral toward the mountains. I suddenly discovered that I had been hearing shooting for some time. It sounded immensely far away—like nothing so much as a clicking typewriter. Even while it held our attention it grew. The little trivial pricking of rifles deepened and became serious. Out in front now it was practically continuous—almost the roll of a snare-drum. Don Petronilo was a little white. He called Apolinario and told him to harness the mules to the coach.