“He’s yours,” Billy replied. “Just get through!”
Billy brought Diablo up, and quickly, Bob put his foot into the stirrup, then swung up into the saddle.
“Good luck!” Billy shouted, slapping Diablo on the rump. The others shouted as well, as Bob hit the water on the west side of the Atacosa, away from where the main body of their pursuers were. James watched Bob gallop north along the west bank of the creek until Diablo crested an embankment, then he turned back to await the banditos.
“I hear them!” Joe said. His announcement wasn’t necessary, however, for by then everyone could hear the drumming of the hoofbeats as well as the cries of the banditos themselves, yip ping and barking and screaming at the top of their lungs.
The banditos crested the bluff just before the creek; then, without a pause, they rushed down the hill toward the water, their horses sounding like thunder.
“Remember, boys, hold your fire!” James shouted. “Hold your fire until I give you the word!”
The banditos stopped just at the water’s edge, then holding their rifles over their heads, began shouting guttural challenges to the men who were dug in on the island.
“Get ready,” James called.
The banditos rushed into the water, riding hard across the fifty-yard-wide shallows, shouting and gesturing with rifles and pistols. Then three of them pulled ahead of the others, and when they were halfway across the water, James gave the order to fire. All three of the outlaws went down.
James had fired in concert with the others, and saw the bandito he shot go down as if he had been knocked from his saddle with a club.
The cowboys’ devastating volley was effective, for the banditos who survived swerved to the right and left, riding by, rather than over the cowboys’ positions.
The remaining banditos crossed the creek, then started up the sandy point on the opposite side. They regrouped on the west bank; then turned and rode back for another charge. They were met with a second volley, as crushing as the first had been. Again, a significant number of the banditos in the middle of the charge went down.
The Mexicans pulled back to the east bank of the stream to regroup, watched anxiously by the cowboys on the island. By now the stream was strewn with dead and dying banditos. There were at least eight or nine of them, lying face-down in the shallow water as the current parted around them.
“Has anyone been hit?” James called.
All five men with James answered in the negative. So far, no one had been scratched.
“How are you doing on bullets?” James asked. “Do you all have enough?”
“I’m running out of ammunition,” Syl said.
James took off his belt and started pushing cartridges out of the little leather loops. “Let’s divide up what we have left,” he suggested.
“Looks like they’re about to come at us again,” Billy said.
“All right, boys, get ready. They’re comin’ back,” James shouted.
James got down behind the log and rested the barrel of his rifle on the top. The advantage of the rifle was its range and accuracy. The disadvantage was the time it would take to reload.
He would fire the rifle first, then if they continued to press their attack, he would use his pistol. Although the pistol held six charges, it was only accurate at close range.
He thumbed back the hammer of his rifle, sighted down the long barrel, and waited.
The banditos came again, their horses leaping over the bodies of their comrades and horses. One of the banditos wore a bright red serape and a sombrero decorated with silver. He was riding at the head of the others, and James was sure he must be the leader. That was the one James selected as his target. He waited for a good shot.
When the shot presented itself, James squeezed the trigger. His bullet hit the Mexican just above the right ear, then exited through the top of his head. James saw brain tissue, blood, and bone detritus erupt from the top of the man’s head. The bandito dropped his pistol as he pitched back off his horse.
When they saw their leader go down, the others milled about for a moment, uncertain as to what they should do. One or two started forward, but it wasn’t a concerted charge and, like their leader, they were easily shot down.
By now, nearly a dozen Mexicans lay dead on the banks of the Atacosa, in the water, and on the sandy beaches of the island. The Mexicans made one more charge, and during this charge, James felt a blow to his left thigh. There was very little pain and he thought, perhaps, a rock had been kicked up by one of the horses’ hooves.
Once again the Mexicans were repulsed and, once again, not one of James’s men had been lost. But their defense of the island had not been without some cost, for James had been wounded. What he had thought to be a blow from a rock turned out to be a bullet wound, and as he looked down toward his thigh he could see that the front of his pants was wet and sticky with blood. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be gushing, which meant that no artery had been struck.
The banditos did not make another attempt against the island. Instead, they crossed over the river in considerable numbers, both upstream and down, so they could occupy positions in the surrounding bluffs on both sides of the stream. In this way they were able to keep the cowboys effectively trapped on the island.
“What are they doing?” Carl asked, nervously. “Why don’t they come on?”
“They are going to wait us out,” Billy said.
“Come on, you cowards!” the young cowboy shouted. “Come and get us!”
“Take it easy, Carl. You’re doing just what they want you to do,” James said.
From across the water, they heard laughter.
The taunt was followed by more laughter.
James knew that their survival depended upon whether or not Bob was able to get through to his father. If Bob made it, James’s father would no doubt be able to effect a rescue by nightfall. But if Bob didn’t make it, if he had been caught and killed by the banditos, it would only be a matter of time until the taunting Mexican made good his threat.
There was sporadic firing throughout the rest of the afternoon and early evening as the cowboys on the island and the banditos on the bluffs continued to exchange gunfire. After sunset that evening, James counted half a dozen campfires scattered about on both sides of the creek. He and the others on the island listened as the banditos laughed and shouted insults and challenges to the little group on the island.
“Who the hell are these guys?” James asked. “It looks like a whole army of them.”
“It is an army,” Billy said.
“What do you mean?” Joe asked.
“They call themselves guerrillas,” Billy explained. “You see, right now the French control Mexico, but they don’t control the peasants. Every now and then, someone will get a bunch of men together, call himself a general, and tell them they are a revolutionary army, fighting for their freedom.”
“Well, what the hell are they fightin’ us for?” Carl asked. “We ain’t took away their freedom.”
“No, we haven’t. But anything, even the outlaw trail, is better than what they have.”
Billy Swan knew what he was talking about. He had been born to a Mexican mother in the border town of El Paso. Four years ago he had come to San Antonio de Bexar to live with his father’s brother, Loomis Swan. Billy and James had been good friends ever since.
With his dark complexion and flashing black eyes, Billy could easily pass as Mexican. He was fluent in Spanish and was as likely to be found in the Mexican cantinas as he was in the American saloons. He was good with ropes, and could drop a loop over a steer while riding at top speed. He was also skilled with a knife, and it was said that the reason he had come to live with his uncle was because he had killed a man in El Paso. But Billy had never confirmed the rumor, and James had never asked him about it.
As James and the others looked anxiously out into the night, they discussed among themselves whether or
