Esteban’s party would doubtless have made good their escape had it not been for that other guerrillero returning from its raid; but, as it happened, the two forces met in the sunken road.  Nothing but the darkness and the head-long approach of the fleeing men saved them from immediate destruction, for the collision occurred between banks too steep for a horse to climb, and with that yelling pack too close behind to permit of retreat.

Instantly there began a blind battle in these desperately cramped quarters.  After the first moment or two friend and foe were indistinguishable and the men of both parties began firing or thrusting at whatever loomed nearest out of the gloom.  The narrow ravine quickly became a place of utter confusion, a volcano of blasphemies, a press of jostling, plunging, struggling bodies.  Horses reared and bit at one another.  Riders fought stirrup to stirrup with clubbed rifles and machetes; saddles were emptied and the terrified horses bolted.  Some of them lunged up the banks, only to tumble down again, their threshing limbs and sharp-shod hoofs working more havoc than blows from old-time battle-hammers.  Meanwhile those of Cobo’s men who had ridden out from the sugar-mill naturally attributed this new uproar to a stand of their enemies, and began to rake the road with rifle fire; then, in obedience to the commands of their half-clad colonel, they charged.  A moment and they were fighting hand to hand with their returning comrades.  Spaniard clashed with Spaniard, and somewhere in the melee the six marauders battled for their lives.

Of course, after the first moment of conflict, Esteban had not been able to exert the least control over his men; in fact, he could not make himself heard.  Nor could he spare the breath to shout; he was too desperately engaged.  When the full truth of the situation dawned upon him he gave up hope for his life and at first merely strove to wreak such havoc as he could.  Yet while some of his faculties were completely numbed in the stress of that white-hot moment, others remained singularly clear.  The shock of his surprise, the imminence of his peril, rendered him dead to any emotion save dismay, and yet, strangely enough, he remembered Rosa’s pressing need for him and, more for her sake than for his own, fought to extricate himself from the confusion.  His rifle was empty, he had its hot barrel in his hands; he dimly distinguished Asensio wielding his machete.  Then he found himself down and half stunned.  He was running here and there to avoid lunging horses; he was tripping and falling, but meanwhile, as opportunity offered, he continued to use his clubbed weapon.  Something smote him heavily, at last—­whether a hoof or a gun-stock he could not tell--and next he was on all-fours, trying to drag himself out of this rat-pit.  But his limbs were queerly rebellious, and he was sick; he had never experienced anything quite like this and he thought he must be wounded.  It greatly surprised him to find that he could struggle upward through the brambles, even though it was hard work.  Men were fighting all around and below him, meanwhile, and he wondered vaguely what made them kill one another when he and his negroes were all dead or dying.  It seemed very strange—­of a piece with the general unreality of things—­and it troubled him not a little.