“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.