He knelt behind the dead horse, facing the advancing Spaniards. The revolver cracked again, and the foremost horseman dropped, shot through the head. The troop was now close upon them; Rita could see the fierce faces, and the gleam of their wolfish teeth. Delmonte fired again, and another man dropped, but still the rest came on. There was no help, then?
Delmonte looked at Rita; she closed her eyes, expecting death. The air was full of cries and curses. But—what other sound was that? Not from before, but behind them—round the turn of the road—some one was singing! In all the hurry of her flying thoughts Rita steadied herself to listen.
"For it's whoop-la! whoop!
Git along, my little dogies;
For Wyoming shall be your new home!—
"What in the Rockies is going on here, anyhow?"
Rita turned her head. A horseman had come around the bend, and checked his horse, looking at the scene before him. A giant rider on a giant horse. The moon shone on his brown uniform, his slouched felt hat, and the carbine laid across his saddle-bow. Under the slouched hat looked out a bronzed face, grim and bearded, lighted by eyes blue as Delmonte's own.
Rita gave one glance. "Help!" she cried, "America, help!"
"America's the place!" said the horseman. He waved his hand to some one behind him, then put his horse to the gallop. Next instant he was beside them.
Delmonte started to his feet, revolver in hand. "U. S. A.?" he said. "You're just in time, uncle. I'm glad to see you."
"Always like to be on time at a party," said the rough rider, levelling his carbine. "My fellows are—in short, here they are!"
There was a scurry of hoofs, a shout, and thirty horsemen swept around the curve and came racing up.