"Did we lose any men?" Judson asked.
"Not one. But Ramos was badly cut."
"So? Then he got to close quarters with some Spaniard?"
"Oh no!" The colonel grinned. "He was in too great a hurry and broke open a show-case with his fist."
The retreating Cubans still maintained their uproar, discharging their rifles into the air, shrieking defiance at their invisible foes, and voicing insulting invitations to combat. This ferocity, however, served only to terrify further the civil population and to close the shutters of San Antonio the tighter. Meanwhile, the loyal troops remained safely in their blockhouses, pouring a steady fire into the town. And despite this admirable display of courage the visitors showed a deep respect for their enemies' markmanship, taking advantage of whatever shelter there was.
Leslie Branch, of course, proved the solitary exception; as usual, he exposed himself recklessly and rode the middle of the streets, regardless of those sudden explosions of dust beneath his horse's feet or those unexpected showers of plaster from above.
He had spent his time assiduously ransacking the deserted shops, and in addition to his huge bundle of bedding and his long string of straw hats he now possessed a miscellaneous assortment of plunder, in which were a bolt of calico, a pair of shoes, a collection of cooking-utensils, an umbrella, and--strangest of all--a large gilt-framed mirror. The safety of these articles seemed to concern him far more than his own. Spying O'Reilly, he shouted: "Say! What's the Spanish word for 'clothing-store'? I need a new suit."
"Don't be an idiot!" Johnnie yelled at him. "Keep under cover."
But Branch only shook his head. "They couldn't hit anything," he cried.
The next instant, as if to punctuate his remark, a spent bullet smashed the mirror and sprinkled the speaker with particles of glass. It was only by a miracle that he escaped injury. Branch reined in his horse, examined the wreck, then with a petulant exclamation cast the useless frame away.
"Come on, Johnnie," Judson growled. "The damn fool wants to get shot."
The sick man's bravado roused in O'Reilly a feeling of mingled resentment and apprehension, but further warning would obviously be a waste of breath. Nevertheless, being a little too tender- hearted to follow Judson's nonchalant example and ride on, O'Reilly held in his horse, meanwhile keeping an anxious eye upon his friend.
The latter was in no hurry; he jogged along leisurely, evidently on the lookout for an opportunity to replenish his wardrobe. Truth to say, this needed replenishing--Leslie resembled a scarecrow clad in a suit of soiled pajamas. But by this time most of the shops had their shutters up. When the last one had been left behind O'Reilly spurred his horse into a gallop, relieved to know that the worst was over.