At Santa Clara the massed columns of the army halted and began to defile to left and right, thin lines of troops jogging out under the checkered sun and shade of the great trees, until six thousand men were spread in one long single front, to the right over fields and through ditches, beyond the last cultivated field, across the desert to the very base of the mountains; to the left over the roll of the flat world. The bugles blared faintly and near, and the army moved forward in a mighty line across the whole country. Above them lifted a five-mile-wide golden dust-glory. Flags flapped. In the center, level with them, came the cannon-car, and beside that Villa rode with his staff. At the little villages along the way the big-hatted, white-bloused pacificos stood in silent wonder, watching this strange host pass. An old man drove his goats homeward. The foaming wave of troopers broke upon him, yelling with pure mischief, and all the goats ran in different directions. A mile of army shouted with laughter,—the dust rolled up from their thousand hoofs, and they passed. At the village of Brittingham the great line halted, while Villa and his staff galloped up to the peons watching from their little mound.
"Oyez!" said Villa. "Have any troops passed through here lately?"
"Si, señor!" answered several men at once. "Some of Don Carlo Argumedo's gente went by yesterday pretty fast."
"Hum," Villa meditated. "Have you seen that bandit Pancho Villa around here?"
"No, señor!" they chorused.
"Well, he's the fellow I'm looking for. If I catch that diablo it will go hard with him!"
"We wish you all success!" cried the pacificos, politely.
"You never saw him, did you?"
"No, God forbid!" they said fervently.
"Well!" grinned Villa. "In the future when people ask if you know him you will have to admit the shameful fact! I am Pancho Villa!" And with that he spurred away, and all the army followed....