His rage and horror
caused every nerve and muscle within him to swell. His brain was a mass
of fire. His strength was superhuman. Whirling the great lance in club
fashion about his head he struck another Mexican across the shoulders,
and sent him with a howl of pain from the saddle. He next struck a horse
across the forehead, and so great was the impact that the animal went
down. A cavalryman at a range of ten yards fired at him and missed. He
never fired again, as the heavy butt of the lance caught him the next
instant on the side of the head, and he went to join his comrade.
All the while Ned was running for the timber. A certain reason was
appearing in his actions, and he was beginning to think clearly. He
curved about as he ran, knowing that it would disturb the aim of the
Mexicans, who were not good shots, and instinctively he held on to the
lance, whirling it about his head, and from time to time uttering fierce
shouts like an Indian warrior wild with battle. More than one Mexican
horseman sheered away from the formidable figure with the formidable
weapon.
Ned saw other figures, unarmed, running for the wood. A few reached it,
but most were cut down before they had gone half way.
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