"Sure!" O'Reilly quickly remounted, meanwhile directing Jacket to load the canned goods upon his horse and ride for the open country. He looked back a few moments later, to see his asistente emerge from the bodega perched between two queer-looking improvised saddlebags bulging with plunder. The pony was overloaded, but in obedience to the frantic urgings of its barelegged rider it managed to break into a shambling trot. Branch reappeared, too, looping the eight-foot string of straw hats to his saddle-horn, and balancing before him the remainder of the bedding, done up in a gaudy quilt.
Sharing in the general consternation at the attack, the jail guards had disappeared, leaving Lopez's men free to break into the prison. When O'Reilly joined them the work was well under way. The municipal building of San Antonio was a thick-walled structure with iron-barred windows and stout doors; but the latter soon gave way, and the attackers poured in. Seizing whatever implements they could find, Judson and O'Reilly went from cell to cell, battering, prying, smashing, leaving their comrades to rescue the inmates. This jail was a poor affair. It could scarcely be dignified by the name of a prison; nevertheless, true prison conditions prevailed in it and it was evidently conducted in typically Spanish fashion. The corridors were dark and odorous, the cells unspeakably foul; O'Reilly and Judson saw, heard, smelled enough to convince them that no matter how guilty the prisoners might be they had been amply punished for their crimes.
This, too, was swift work. The building echoed to rushing, yelling men, while outside a fitful accompaniment of gun-shots urged the rescuers to greater haste. While the Americans smashed lock after lock, their comrades dragged the astonished inmates from their kennels, hustled them into the street, and took them up behind their saddles.
The raid was over, "retreat" was sounding, when Judson and O'Reilly ran out of the prison, remounted, and joined their comrades, who were streaming back toward the plaza.
"Whew!" Judson wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "No chance to ask these fellows what they were in for."
"No need to ask them," said Johnnie. "A month in there would be too much for a murderer."
"The druggist said most of 'em are just patriots, and every holiday the Spaniards shoot one or two. There's no cock-fighting, so it's the only Sunday amusement they have. Did you notice that sick guy?"
"Yes."
"He looked to me like he was plain starved. Our fellows had to carry him."
Colonel Lopez galloped up to inquire, anxiously, "Did you find those eatables, eh?"
"Yes, sir, and a lot more."
"Good! But I failed. Pickles? Caramba! Nobody here ever heard of one!"