The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance.
On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched, shouting their wild cries: "_Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees_!" (Forward! forward! Death to the Yankees!) The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded mules, pricking them with bayonets.

The animals began to kick and plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front.
"Face about--fire!" I commanded at this moment.
An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and were swooping down with cries of vengeance.

A dozen of their bravest men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols as they came down.
Our position had now grown fearfully critical.

The mules still blocked up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy of the enemy's lances.
Seizing the major's servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse, and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear.

Half a dozen of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry charge on the short bayonets of their rifles.