It wasn't we was crack shots, neither, excepting Gonzales. We were, for all practical purposes, cool. Speaking for myself, I felt neither hope nor fear. I had but one ambition--to make the party that arrived as small as possible. It would surprise me to learn that our boys missed two shots out of five. And there isn't any crowd, white, brown, nor black, that can stand a gaffing like that. They had no plan. As I say, they thought all they had to do was walk up and take us. When we put every third man on the grass, they halted, bunching closer, and we pumped it to 'em for keeps. They melted down the road, panic-struck. We had no cheers of victory, being much too busy. By just keeping industriously at work instead of hollering we put three or four more out of the game. It was business, for us. The smoke drifted slowly up the hillside; some of the wounded men began hollerin' for water; one got to his knees and emptied his gun at us. Gonzales was for removing him, but I held his hand. "Let him ease his mind," I said, "he can't hit anything." And just to make me out a liar, the beggar covered me with splinters from the shutter. Gonzales shot, and that was over. I began to wish they'd hustle us again. The sweat poured off us. We panted like running dogs. Outside there, where the valley rippled with sun-heat, all was still, except that cry--"Water! water! For the love of God, water!" I've needed water since. I know what that screech means. Lord! that hour!--a blaze of sun, blue shadows, wisps of smoke curling up the hill, and the lonesome cry in the big silence--"Water! water! For the love of God, water!" That's what it come to; them fellers didn't care much for victory--they wanted water. It wore on me, like the barking of a dog. I grabbed the water-pail and started for the door. "Here!" cries Pedro, "what will you make?" "I want to stop that noise." "Put down the pail!" says Pedro. "Foolish fellow! Do you not know they keel you at once?" "Pede," I says, "I can't sit here and hear 'em holler like that--there's no damn use in talking." "Listen," says Pedro, grabbing me by the coat. "See what you do; here are friends; for them you care not. Eef you are keeled, so much the worse are we--are we not more than they? You leave us, and you shall be keeled and our hope goes--I ask you, is that good?" "No," I says, putting down the pail. "It ain't, Pede. You're right," and one of 'em outside struck a new note that stuck in me and quivered. "Remember," I says, "that I died admitting you were right." Darn it, I was risking my own hide. But Pede had the truth of it. I oughtn't to have done it. So I grabbed the pail and went out. I was considerable shot at, but not by the wounded men.