I finally slept for an hour, lying flat on the floor. I remember waking up in the gray morning just as Barbecue Campbell stepped over me to go to the door and relieve himself. One hand was at his pants button, and with the other he gave Joe Lovelady’s horse a light shove, for the horse’s rear end was partially blocking the door.
Barbecue had not even cleared the doorway before the fusillade met him: the Texas riflemen, hidden around the edge of the gully, could not have asked for a more imposing target; it may even be that his size saved some of us inside. The man was so tall and broad that he had to stoop and twist to get outside, and the first seven or eight bullets that slammed into him caused him to fall backward and wedge in the doorway.
He was dead instantly, of course, and his corpse functioned as a barricade long enough for the gunmen to roll against the walls and escape the bullets that would otherwise have poured through the open door.
The first fusillade continued for several minutes; bullets spit like sleet against the cabin walls from all sides, but fortunately the adobe walls were thick and none penetrated. The noise was deafening, though—Billy Bone pulled his old hat down over his ears and looked white, as if he might be getting one of his sick headaches.
The gunmen all showed a certain aplomb, considering the desperate nature of the situation. We soon heard squeals of anguish from the horses, all of which were being methodically shot.
“Why, them shit-asses!” Happy Jack exclaimed—one horse made a dying dash, fell down, and rolled over, kicking.
“Them damn terriers,” Hill Coe said. He had two pistols loaded and sat with a rifle across his lap.
At that point it was not clear how many damn terriers there were—all that was obvious was that we were surrounded, and that all the horses except Joe’s were dead. Joe kept the quivering gelding pressed against the wall, well out of the way of any bullets that might enter through the doorway above Barbecue Campbell’s corpse.
The gunmen, far from panicking, seemed to be in a contemplative state, each sitting as snugly as possible against the wall, guns in hand, waiting for a moment when they might take the offensive.
Then the firing abruptly stopped. It was full light now—the sun was rising behind the riflemen to the east, making it impossible to see the massed assailants.
“We only want that damn little Bill!” a voice called out from the top of the gully.
“That’s Jody Fay,” Joe Lovelady said. “I was afraid he’d be coming.”
Billy Bone said nothing; he sat clutching his new shotgun, and he still looked white.