A moment and they were fighting hand to hand with their
returning comrades. Spaniard clashed with Spaniard, and somewhere
in the melee the six marauders battled for their lives.
Of course, after the first moment of conflict, Esteban had not
been able to exert the least control over his men; in fact, he
could not make himself heard. Nor could he spare the breath to
shout; he was too desperately engaged. When the full truth of the
situation dawned upon him he gave up hope for his life and at
first merely strove to wreak such havoc as he could. Yet while
some of his faculties were completely numbed in the stress of that
white-hot moment, others remained singularly clear. The shock of
his surprise, the imminence of his peril, rendered him dead to any
emotion save dismay, and yet, strangely enough, he remembered
Rosa's pressing need for him and, more for her sake than for his
own, fought to extricate himself from the confusion. His rifle was
empty, he had its hot barrel in his hands; he dimly distinguished
Asensio wielding his machete. Then he found himself down and half
stunned. He was running here and there to avoid lunging horses; he
was tripping and falling, but meanwhile, as opportunity offered,
he continued to use his clubbed weapon. Something smote him
heavily, at last--whether a hoof or a gun-stock he could not tell-
-and next he was on all-fours, trying to drag himself out of this
rat-pit.
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