“Impossible,” said Brannan, shortly.  “I have sent all who can ride or manage a rifle.”  He came a little closer and regarded the commander steadily.  “Did Ward write anything about a parley?” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Hull.  “He indicates that peace might be arranged if I will give a guarantee against further horse or cattle commandeering.”

“May I suggest that such a course is wise—­and just?”

“Damn it, sir!  You’d have me treat with these—­these brigands!” the other shouted.  “Never.  They’ve defied the United States by laying violent hands on an official.  They’ve wounded two of my marines.”

He turned to the crowd which had assembled.  “Do you hear that?  Two Americans wounded.  Five held in captivity—­including your alcalde.  Shall we stand that passively?  Shall we let the enemy dictate terms?”

“No, no!” a voice shouted.  “Fight to the last ditch.  Kill the greasers.  Hang them to a tree.  I’m with you, horse and gun.  Who else?”

“I, I, I,” a score made answer.  They pressed forward.  “Who’s to lead us?” asked the first speaker.

Brannan stepped forward but Commander Hull raised a protesting hand.  “I shall send a corporal of marines from the Warren.  You will rest your horse, since I cannot spare you a fresh mount, and hold yourself in readiness to act as a courier, Mr. Brannan.”  He summoned an orderly and sent him to the Warren with an order to Corporal Smith.  Meanwhile the volunteers assembled in the square, thirty-four in all; men of half a dozen nationalities.  One giant Russian loomed above them, a Goliath on a great roan horse.  And near him, to accentuate the contrast, an elderly moustached, imperialed Frenchman on a mare as under-sized and spirited as himself.

Brannan and Leidesdorff watched them galloping down the camino ten minutes later under the guidance of a smart young corporal.

“I trust it will soon be over,” said the former.  “I saw Benito Windham riding beside Sanchez in the battle today.”

* * * * *

The Senorita Inez’ head was high that afternoon when McTurpin came upon her suddenly in the patio of the Windham hacienda.  She rose haughtily.  “Senor, this intrusion is unpardonable.  If my brother was within call—­” McTurpin bowed low.  There was a touch of mockery in his eye.  “It is about your brother that I’ve come to talk with you, Miss Inez.”

The girl’s hand sought her breast.  “Benito!  He is not—­” Words failed her.

“No, not dead—­yet,” McTurpin answered.

“God in Heaven!  Tell me,” said the girl, imploringly!  “He is wounded?  Dying?” McTurpin took a seat beside her on the rustic bench.  “Benito isn’t dead—­nor wounded so far as I know.  But,” his tone held an ominous meaning, “it might be better if he were.”

“I—­I do not understand,” said Inez, staring.

“Then let me make it clear.”  McTurpin struck a fist against his palm.  “Your brother is American.  Very well.  And what is an American who takes up arms against his country?”