The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner of the room.
"Where's Frank working this morning?" he asked.
"Over down in the gulch," said the other, turning round for a moment. "There's an attack on American cavalry this morning."
"Oh, yes, I forgot," said the chief clerk. "I thought it was the Indian Massacre, but I guess that's for to-morrow. Go straight to the end of the street and turn left about half a mile and you'll find the boys down there."
We thanked him and withdrew.
We passed across the open plaza, and went down a narrow side road, bordered here and there with adobe houses, and so out into the open country. Here the hills rose again and the road that we followed wound sharply round a turn into a deep gorge, bordered with rocks and sage brush. We had no sooner turned the curve of the road than we came upon a scene of great activity. Men in Mexican costume were running to and fro apparently arranging a sort of barricade at the side of the road. Others seemed to be climbing the rocks on the further side of the gorge, as if seeking points of advantage. I noticed that all were armed with rifles and machetes and presented a formidable appearance. Of Villa himself I could see nothing. But there was a grim reality about the glittering knives, the rifles and the maxim guns that I saw concealed in the sage brush beside the road.
"What is it?" I asked of a man who was standing idle, watching the scene from the same side of the road as ourselves.
"Attack of American cavalry," he said nonchalantly.
"Here!" I gasped.
"Yep, in about ten minutes: soon as they are ready."