With the muzzle describing an arc of several degrees, many of the flankers were hit.

The others threw themselves flat on the ground to escape its destructive fire.
From the mill another score of charging Mexicans had started, yelling in Spanish: "Death to the Gringos." Leaping forward, Darrin felt a sudden sting of pain in his right foot.

A bullet, sent in low, had ripped the sole of his shoe, inflicting a painful wound.
"Cease firing, Corporal!" Dave ordered, hobbling to the machine gun.

"Swing her nose around.

Now, give it to 'em." As the machine gun barked forth again the raiders from the mill found good excuse for halting.