Ned could never remember clearly the next few moments in that red and awful scene.  It seemed to him afterward that he went mad for the time.  He was conscious of groans and cries, of the fierce shouting of the Mexicans, wild with the taste of blood, of the incessant crackling of the rifles and muskets, and of falling bodies.  He saw gathering over himself and his slaughtered comrades a great column of smoke, pierced by innumerable jets of fire, and he caught glimpses of the swart faces of the Mexicans as they pulled triggers.  From right and left came the crash of heavy but distant volleys, showing that the other two columns were being massacred in the same way.

He felt the thunder of hoofs and a horse was almost upon him, while the rider, leaning from the saddle, cut at him with a saber.  Ned, driven by instinct rather than reason, sprang to one side the next instant, and then the horseman was lost in the smoke.  He dashed against a figure, and was about to strike with his fist, the only weapon that he now had, when he saw that he had collided with a Texan, unwounded like himself.  Then he, too, was lost in the smoke.

A consuming rage and horror seized Ned.  Why he was not killed he never knew.  The cloud over the place where the slaughtered recruits lay thickened, but the Mexicans never ceased to fire into it with their rifles and muskets.  The crackling of the weapons beat incessantly upon the drums of his ears.  Mingled with it were the cries and groans of the victims, now fast growing fewer.  But it was all a blurred and red vision to Ned.  While he was in that deadly volcano he moved by instinct and impulse and not by reason.

A few of the unwounded had already dashed from the smoke and had undertaken flight across the plain, away from the Mexican infantry, where they were slain by the lances or muskets of the cavalry under Urrea.  Ned followed them.  A lancer thrust so savagely at him that when the boy sprang aside the lance was hurled from his hand.  Ned’s foot struck against the weapon, and instantly he picked it up.  A horseman on his right was aiming a musket at him, and, using the lance as a long club, he struck furiously at the Mexican.  The heavy butt landed squarely upon the man’s head, and shattered it like an eggshell.  Youthful and humane, Ned nevertheless felt a savage joy when the man’s skull crashed beneath his blow.

It is true that he was quite mad for the moment.  His rage and horror caused every nerve and muscle within him to swell.  His brain was a mass of fire.  His strength was superhuman.  Whirling the great lance in club fashion about his head he struck another Mexican across the shoulders, and sent him with a howl of pain from the saddle.  He next struck a horse across the forehead, and so great was the impact that the animal went down.  A cavalryman at a range of ten yards fired at him and missed.  He never fired again, as the heavy butt of the lance caught him the next instant on the side of the head, and he went to join his comrade.