As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans leaped from their places with gestures of mingled rage and terror as if about to break and run.

The battle, had it continued, could have but one end.

But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the long sustained note of a steam whistle blowing the hour of noon.

In an instant the firing ceased.

The battle stopped.  The Mexicans picked themselves up off the ground and began brushing off the dust from their black velvet jackets.  The American cavalry reined in their horses.  Dead Pete came to life.  General Villa and the American leader and a number of others strolled over towards the boss, who stood beside the fence vociferating his comments.

“That won’t do!” he was shouting.  “That won’t do!  Where in blazes was that infernal Sister of Mercy?  Miss Jenkinson!” and he called to a tall girl, whom I now noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a sort of khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a water bottle in a strap.  “You never got into the picture at all.  I want you right in there among the horses, under their feet.”

“Land sakes!” said the Sister of Mercy.  “You ain’t no right to ask me to go in there among them horses and be trampled.”

“Ain’t you paid to be trampled?” said the manager angrily.  Then as he caught sight of Villa he broke off and said:  “Frank, you boys done fine.  It’s going to be a good act, all right.  But it ain’t just got the right amount of ginger in it yet.  We’ll try her over once again, anyway.”

“Now, boys,” he continued, calling out to the crowd with a voice like a megaphone, “this afternoon at three-thirty —­Hospital scene.  I only want the wounded, the doctors and the Sisters of Mercy.  All the rest of youse is free till ten to-morrow—­for the Indian Massacre.  Everybody up for that.”

It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with Villa in a back room of the little posada, or inn, of the town.  The General had removed his ferocious wig of straight black hair, and substituted a check suit for his warlike costume.  He had washed the darker part of the paint off his face—­in fact, he looked once again the same Frank Villa that I used to know when he kept his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.

“Well, Frank,” I said, “I’m afraid I came down here under a misunderstanding.”

“Looks like it,” said the General, as he rolled a cigarette.

“And you wouldn’t care to go back even for the offer that I am commissioned to make—­your old job back again, and half the profits on a new cigar to be called the Francesco Villa?”

The General shook his head.

“It sounds good, all right,” he said, “but this moving-picture business is better.”

“I see,” I said, “I hadn’t understood.  I thought there really was a revolution here in Mexico.”

“No,” said Villa, shaking his head, “been no revolution down here for years—­not since Diaz.  The picture companies came in and took the whole thing over; they made us a fair offer—­so much a reel straight out, and a royalty, and let us divide up the territory as we liked.  The first film we done was the bombardment of Vera Cruz.  Say, that was a dandy; did you see it?”