Esteban caught one glimpse of the negro's face, a fleeting vision
of white teeth bared to the gums, of distended yellow eyes, of
flat, distorted features; then Asensio was fairly upon Colonel
Cobo. The colonel, who had dropped his burden, now tried to dodge.
Asensio slashed once at him with his long, murderous machete, but
the next instant he was engaged with a trooper who had fired
almost into his face.
The other negroes also were in the open by this time, yelling and
firing as fast as they could work the bolts of their rifles, and
although they aimed at nothing in particular, the effect of their
fusillade was all that could be wished. Cobo's men, led by the
terrified Pancho Cueto, turned and fled for cover, believing
themselves in danger of annihilation. Nor was the colonel himself
in any condition to rally them, for Asensio's blade had cloven one
full dark cheek to the bone, and the shock and pain had unnerved
him; he was frightened at sight of the blood that streamed down
over the breast of his white tunic, and so, when he saw his men
turn tail, he followed suit, lunging through the lush garden
growth, holding his wound in his hand and shrieking profane
commands which went unheeded.
The field was small, the jungle was close at hand. A moment and
the interlopers had vanished into it, all but one, who lay kicking
among the broad malanga-leaves, and over whom Asensio kept
spurring his terrified horse, hacking downward with insane fury.
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