"Ensign Darrin," ordered Trent, promptly, "take thirty men and locate that firing. If you run into anything that you cannot handle, rush word back to me."
Like a shot, Dave Darrin was off, running at the head of thirty sailormen. Around two corners they dashed, then came in sight of a scene that made their blood boil.
Some forty men stood in the street, firing at a house from whose windows flashes of pistol shots came. Plainly the defenders were pitifully weak. Up to this moment the men in the street had not observed Ensign Dave's party.
"Sprint down close enough, Riley," Dave directed, "to see whether the men in the street are Mexicans or our own men. I suspect they're Mexicans."
"They're Mexicans, sir!" panted Riley, returning at a sprint.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!" shouted Darrin. "Charge. Fire as you need."
As the volley rang out several Mexicans dropped. Dave dashed down the street at the head of his men.
A feeble return of the fire came from the Mexicans, who then broke and fled to the next corner.
"Are there Americans inside the house?" called Dave, halting before the open but darkened windows.
"Indeed there are!" came a jubilant voice. "Are you Americans?"