ombardment--it was assuredly a situation to tickle Don
Tiburcio.

Now Driscoll's point of view was less amusing. To change his position,
he must expose himself to a fusilade from across the way. And if he
tried to rush his friend of the gully, the brigands meantime would carry
off the two girls. A gentleman's part, therefore, was to stay where he
was and be made a target of. But he varied it a little. At Don
Tiburcio's second shot, he lunged partly to his feet and fell forward as
though mortally wounded. He lay quite still, and soon Don Tiburcio came
creeping toward him. Don Tiburcio was thinking of his lost toll-moneys
that should be on the corpse. Driscoll waited, his nerves alert, his
pistols ready. But just beyond range, the blackmailer paused.

"Go for the women, you idiots," he yelled. "The Gringo's dead."

The idiots verified the title straightway, for up they popped from
behind their boulders and started for the shack.

"'Possuming's no use," Driscoll muttered, then fired. The guerrillas got
back to cover quickly enough, and so did Don Tiburcio, grinning over his
stratagem. In his arroyo again, he proposed to make the Gringo as a
sieve. Each bullet from his carabine twanged lower and lower. "Ouch!"
ejaculated Driscoll. One had furrowed his leg, and it hurt. He looked
anxiously, to see if the Mexican were lowering his aim yet more. An inch
meant such a great deal just then. But a tremendous surprise met him.
For Don Tiburcio had changed his mind. The rascal was firing in another
direction entirely, firing rapturously, firing at his very allies, at
the little imps themselves among the boulders and nettles. And the
little imps were positively leaping up to be shot. They ran frantically,
but straight toward the traitor, and on past him up the trail. The Storm
Centre could not shoot lunatics any more than he could babies. He only
stared at them open mouthed.

"Los Cosacos!--El Tigre! Los Cosacos!" they yelled, scrambling out upon
the road, bleeding, falling, praying, and kissing whatever greasy amulet
or virgin's picture they owned.

Then there beat into Driscoll's ears the furious clatter of hoofs. It
deafened him, the familiar, glorious din of it. The blood raged in his
veins like fiery needle points. To see them--the cavalry, the cavalry!
Then they were gone--a flashing streak of centaurs, a streamer of red in
a blur of dust, maniac oaths, and pistol shots, and sweeping sabres.
Hacked bodies were sucked bene