A wild scamper of horses’ hoofs was heard and in a moment there came tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted Mexicans, evidently in flight, for they turned and fired from their saddles as they rode.  The horses that carried them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam.  The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandishing their machetes and firing their revolvers.  Here and there a horse and rider fell to the ground in a great whirl of sand and dust.  In the thick of the press, a leader of ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse, waved his sombrero about his head.

“Villa—­it is Villa!” cried Raymon, tense with excitement.  “Is he not magnifico? But look!  Look—­the Americanos! They are coming!”

It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly on the heels of the Mexicans—­a whole company of American cavalry, their horses shoulder to shoulder, the men bent low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in their hands.  They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the shouting, confused mass of the Mexicans—­but steady, disciplined, irresistible.

On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied the charging line.  The excitement of it was maddening.

“Go to it,” I shouted in uncontrollable emotion.  “Your Mexicans are licked, Raymon, they’re no good!”

“But look!” said Raymon.  “See—­the ambush, the ambuscada!”

For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of us the Mexicans suddenly checked their horses, bringing them plunging on their haunches in the dust, and then swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen sprang into view—­and the sputtering of the machine guns swept the advancing column with a volley.

We could see the American line checked as with the buffet of a great wave, men and horses rolling in the road.  Through the smoke one saw the grey-haired leader —­dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but still brandishing his sword and calling his orders to his men, his face as one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady and fearless.  His words I could not hear, but one saw the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, throw themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim into the mass of the Mexicans.  We could see the Mexicans in front of where we stood falling thick and fast, in little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the sand.  The man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was breathing out his soul before our eyes.

“Well done,” I shouted.  “Go to it, boys!  You can lick ’em yet!  Hurrah for the United States.  Look, Raymon, look!  They’ve shot down the crew of the machine guns.  See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run.  At ’em, boys!  They’re waving the American flag!  There it is in all the thick of the smoke!  Hark!  There’s the bugle call to mount again!  They’re going to charge again!  Here they come!”