We did not even look behind as we tore
down that dusty wilderness way.
At the first motion Aunty Boone had seized Eloise St. Vrain with one
hand and the big dun mule's neck-strap with the other.
"Go to the devil, you tigers and cannibals!" She roared with the growl
of a desert lioness, shaking her big black fist at the band of Mexicans
pouring out of the hills.
And dun mule and black woman and white-faced, terror-stricken child
became only a dust-cloud far in front of us. Mat and Beverly and I
leaped to the ponies and followed the lead of the African woman. Nearest
to us was Rex Krane, always a shield for the younger and less able. And
behind him, as defense for the rear and protection for the van, came
Esmond Clarenden and Bill Banney, with Jondo nearest the enemy, where
danger was greatest.
I tell it calmly, but I lived it in a blind whirl. The swift hoof-beat,
the wild Indian yells, the whirl of arrows and whiz of bullets, the
onrush to outrun the Mexicans who were trying to cut us off from the
trail in front. Lived it! I lived ages in it. And then an arrow cut my
pony's flank, making him lurch from the trail, a false step, the pony
staggering, falling.
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