“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 whoop from the lungs of the advancing cavalrymen. Pesita's troops answered it with a scattering volley, and a moment later the Americans were among them in that famous revolver charge which is now history.
Daylight had come revealing to the watchers in the ranchhouse the figures of the combatants. In the thick of the fight loomed the giant figure of a man in nondescript garb which more closely resembled the apparel of the Pesitistas than it did the uniforms of the American soldiery, yet it was with them he fought. Barbara's eyes were the first to detect him.
“There's Mr. Byrne,” she cried. “It must have been he who brought the troops.”
“Why, he hasn't had time to reach the border yet,” remonstrated one of the Clark boys, “much less get back here with help.”