All was confusion. Jerry tried hard to stick close to Lieutenant Grant. The yard had to be crossed first—a very maelstrom of smoke and lead—before the buildings themselves might be stormed. The Mexican soldiers, firing from windows and rooftop, gave way never an inch. They were obstinate to-day; brave, too. But shooting, shouting, darting by squads, the Fourth Infantry bored in. On the other sides the rest of the brigade was fighting stoutly also.
It did not seem possible that anybody could live to reach those angry buildings. Jerry—somehow not a whit afraid, so excited he was—wormed after Lieutenant Grant, who surely had a charmed life. The Grant detachment rammed through a door and into the first room of the first building. A pioneer with an ax had joined. Lieutenant Grant pointed, and the pioneer hacked a hole through a wall of the room; the lieutenant vanished into it—they all pursued, Jerry wriggling with the others, his drum slung on his back, his eyes smarting and watering.
Mexican soldiers were upon the roof above. They could be heard yelling and firing. A door from the second room led into an open corridor from wing to wing. The lieutenant sprang back just in time—a loud report had greeted him, and a bullet had splintered the plaster in front of his nose. Scotty MacPheel bolted forward, musket ready; another bullet toppled him. They dragged him into shelter.
"'Tis nathin', lads," he gasped. "But bide a wee, for if there's ane there's a dozen, jist a-waitin' above."
