As he fired Bridge turned in his saddle and shouted to the others to make for the shelter of the ranchhouse.
“There are two hundred of them,” he cried. “Run for cover!”
Billy and the Clark brothers leaped to their saddles and spurred toward the point where Bridge sat pumping lead into the advancing enemy. Mason and Mr. Harding hurried Barbara to the questionable safety of the ranchhouse. The Mexican followed them, and Bridge ordered Sing back to assist in barricading the doors and windows, while he and Billy and the Clark boys held the bandits in momentary check.
Falling back slowly and firing constantly as they came the four approached the house while Pesita and his full band advanced cautiously after them. They had almost reached the house when Bridge lunged forward from his saddle. The Clark boys had dismounted and were leading their ponies inside the house. Billy alone noted the wounding of his friend. Without an instant’s hesitation he slipped from his saddle, ran back to where Bridge lay and lifted him in his arms. Bullets were pattering thick about them. A horseman far in advance of his fellows galloped forward with drawn saber to cut down the gringos.
Billy, casting an occasional glance behind, saw the danger in time to meet it—just, in fact, as the weapon was cutting through the air toward his head. Dropping Bridge and dodging to one side he managed to escape the cut, and before the swordsman could recover Billy had leaped to his pony’s side and seizing the rider about the waist dragged him to the ground.
“Rozales!” he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck another in all his life, with the full force of his mighty muscles backed by his great weight, with clenched fist full in the face.
There was a spurting of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain Guillermo Rozales sank senseless to the ground, his career of crime and rapine ended forever.
Again Billy lifted Bridge in his arms and this time he succeeded in reaching the ranchhouse without opposition though a little crimson stream trickled down his left arm to drop upon the face of his friend as he deposited Bridge upon the floor of the house.
All night the Pesitistas circled the lone ranchhouse. All night they poured their volleys into the adobe walls and through the barricaded windows. All night the little band of defenders fought gallantly for their lives; but as day approached the futility of their endeavors was borne in upon them, for of the nine one was dead and three wounded, and the numbers of their assailants seemed undiminished.
Billy Byrne had been lying all night upon his stomach before a window firing out into the darkness at the dim forms which occasionally showed against the dull, dead background of the moonless desert.
Presently he leaped to his feet and crossed the floor to the room in which the horses had been placed.
“Everybody fire toward the rear of the house as fast as they can,” said Billy. “I want a clear space for my getaway.”
“Where you goin?” asked one of the Clark brothers.
“North,” replied Billy, “after some of Funston’s men on the border.”
“But they won’t cross,” said Mr. Harding. “Washington won’t let them.”
“They gotta,” snapped Billy Byrne, “an’ they will when they know there’s an American girl here with a bunch of Dagos yappin’ around.”
“You’ll be killed,” said Price Clark. “You can’t never get through.”
“Leave it to me,” replied Billy. “Just get ready an’ open that back door when I give the word, an’ then shut it again in a hurry when I’ve gone through.”
He led a horse from the side room, and mounted it.
“Open her up, boes!” he shouted, and “S’long everybody!”
Price Clark swung the door open. Billy put spurs to his mount and threw himself forward flat against the animal’s neck. Another moment he was through and a rattling fusillade of shots proclaimed the fact that his bold feat had not gone unnoted by the foe.
The little Mexican pony shot like a bolt from a crossbow out across the level desert. The rattling of carbines only served to add speed to its frightened feet. Billy sat erect in the saddle, guiding the horse with his left hand and working his revolver methodically with his right.
At a window behind him Barbara Harding stood breathless and spellbound until he had disappeared into the gloom of the early morning darkness to the north, then she turned with a weary sigh and resumed her place beside the wounded Bridge whose head she bathed with cool water, while he tossed in the delirium of fever.
The first streaks of daylight were piercing the heavens, the Pesitistas were rallying for a decisive charge, the hopes of the little band of besieged were at low ebb when from the west there sounded the pounding of many hoofs.
“Villa,” moaned Westcott Clark, hopelessly. “We’re done for now, sure enough. He must be comin’ back from his raid on the border.”
In the faint light of dawn they saw a column of horsemen deploy suddenly into a long, thin line which galloped forward over the flat earth, coming toward them like a huge, relentless engine of destruction.
The Pesitistas were watching too. They had ceased firing and sat in their saddles forgetful of their contemplated charge.
The occupants of the ranchhouse were gathered at the small windows.
“What’s them?” cried Mason—“them things floating over ’em.”
“They’re guidons!” exclaimed Price Clark “—the guidons of the United States cavalry regiment. See ’em! See ’em? God! but don’t they look good?”
There was a wild
