“Nothing more was attempted.  One of the ammunition mules had been lost, too, and they had no more than six shots to fire; ample enough to batter down the gate providing the gun was well laid.  This was impossible without it being properly mounted.  There was no time nor means to construct a carriage.  Already every moment I expected to hear Robles’ bugle-calls echo amongst the crags.

“Peneleo, wandering about uneasily, draped in his skins, sat down for a moment near me growling his usual tale.

“’Make an entrada—­a hole.  If make a hole, bueno.  If not make a hole, then vamos—­we must go away.’

“After sunset I observed with surprise the Indians making preparations as if for another assault.  Their lines stood ranged in the shadows of the mountains.  On the plain in front of the fort gate I saw a group of men swaying about in the same place.

“I walked down the ridge disregarded.  The moonlight in the clear air of the uplands was bright as day, but the intense shadows confused my sight, and I could not make out what they were doing.  I heard the voice of Jorge, the artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone, ’It is loaded, senor.’

“Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly the words, ’Bring the riata here.’  It was the voice of Gaspar Ruiz.

“A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the besieged garrison rang out sharply.  They, too, had observed the group.  But the distance was too great and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the ground, the group opened, closed, swayed, giving me a glimpse of busy stooping figures in its midst.  I drew nearer, doubting whether this was a weird vision, a suggestive and insensate dream.

“A strangely stifled voice commanded, ‘Haul the hitches tighter.’

“‘Si, senor,’ several other voices answered in tones of awed alacrity.

“Then the stifled voice said:  ‘Like this.  I must be free to breathe.’

“Then there was a concerned noise of many men together.  ’Help him up, hombres.  Steady!  Under the other arm.’

“That deadened voice ordered:  ‘Bueno!  Stand away from me, men.’

“I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and heard once more that same oppressed voice saying earnestly:  ’Forget that I am a living man, Jorge.  Forget me altogether, and think of what you have to do.’

“’Be without fear, senor.  You are nothing to me but a gun-carriage, and I shall not waste a shot.’

“I heard the spluttering of a port-fire, and smelt the saltpetre of the match.  I saw suddenly before me a nondescript shape on all fours like a beast, but with a man’s head drooping below a tubular projection over the nape of the neck, and the gleam of a rounded mass of bronze on its back.

“In front of a silent semicircle of men it squatted alone, with Jorge behind it and a trumpeter motionless, his trumpet in his hand, by its side.

“Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand:  ’An inch to the left, senor.  Too much.  So.  Now, if you let yourself down a little by letting your elbows bend, I will . . .’