The first lad was a shock-headed half-Injun, with a face to scare a mule. He was blue-black from loss of blood. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," says I. He grabbed the pail and proceeded to surround the contents. "Whoa, there!" says I, "there are others!" I had to yank the pail away from him. He looked at me with his fevered eyes, and held out his big, gray, quivering hands--"For the love of God, Señor, _poquito--poquito_!" "No more for you," I said, and he slumped back, his jaw shaking. It was a waste of water, really; he'd been bored plumb center. So I went the rounds, having to fight 'em away as if they was wolves. Lord! how they wanted that water! When I got to next to the last man, some better marksmen up the road shot my hat off. That riled me. It would make anybody mad. I stopped on the spot and expressed my sentiments. "You're a nice lot of rosy-cheeked gentlemen, you are," says I. "You damned greasy, smelly, flat-footed mix of bad Injun and bad white! If I could get hands on one of you, I'd shred him so fine he'd float on the breeze. Now, you sons of calamity, you shoot at me once more, and I'll call on you!" I was ready to go right up. I waited a minute, but no more shots came. "All right," says I. "_Sin vergüenza!_" and more I won't repeat. The Spaniard has nice ideas about a good many things, but he cusses by the hog-pen. So I told 'em what I could remember that was disrespectful, fed the last man his water, and returned. I stopped to look at my first man. He'd passed on. Well, I wasn't sorry he'd had a drink. "Ha-ha, Pede!" says I when I got back, "I fooled you!" "By one eench!" says he, looking at my hat. "Inch is as good as a mile, and that cussed noise is stopped for a while, anyhow." A stone rattled back of us. "Look to the doors, quick!" says Pedro. We hopped to our places. "Many coming down the hill!" says Gonzales. It wasn't that I had scared or impressed my friends by my oration that they hadn't shot further; no, they simply took advantage of the opportunity to work a sneak on us from behind. I call that low-down. Howsomever, it didn't matter what I called it. They were at our back door, knocking hard. Skipping gaily from tree to rock, they was full as well sheltered as we. Worst of all, when the store was built, the stones from the cellar had been placed in a row behind--not fifteen feet from the back door. There was no way under heaven we could keep them from lining up behind that stone wall, and hitting us all in a lump when they got ready. We shut and barricaded the front door. That side of the store must take care of itself. We simply had to put all hands to meet the rush. In a few minutes, stones, clubs, and a few shots fell on the front of the store, to draw us--this was the other lads, not the soldiers. Gonzales made a quick move, fired half a dozen shots in that direction, and then came back. A white handkerchief on a stick waved behind the wall. "We wish to talk!" said a voice.