Branch
reappeared, too, looping the eight-foot string of straw hats to
his saddle-horn, and balancing before him the remainder of the
bedding, done up in a gaudy quilt.
Sharing in the general consternation at the attack, the jail
guards had disappeared, leaving Lopez's men free to break into the
prison. When O'Reilly joined them the work was well under way. The
municipal building of San Antonio was a thick-walled structure
with iron-barred windows and stout doors; but the latter soon gave
way, and the attackers poured in. Seizing whatever implements they
could find, Judson and O'Reilly went from cell to cell, battering,
prying, smashing, leaving their comrades to rescue the inmates.
This jail was a poor affair. It could scarcely be dignified by the
name of a prison; nevertheless, true prison conditions prevailed
in it and it was evidently conducted in typically Spanish fashion.
The corridors were dark and odorous, the cells unspeakably foul;
O'Reilly and Judson saw, heard, smelled enough to convince them
that no matter how guilty the prisoners might be they had been
amply punished for their crimes.
This, too, was swift work. The building echoed to rushing, yelling
men, while outside a fitful accompaniment of gun-shots urged the
rescuers to greater haste. While the Americans smashed lock after
lock, their comrades dragged the astonished inmates from their
kennels, hustled them into the street, and took them up behind
their saddles.
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