“We seem to be up against just that very thing,” said Bridge.  “There are four carbines quite ready for us.  It would mean sudden death to resist now.  Later we may find an opportunity—­I think we’d better act simple and wait.”  He spoke in a quick, low whisper, for the spokesman of the brigands evidently understood a little English and was on the alert for any trickery.

Billy shrugged, and when their captors again urged them forward he went quietly; but the expression on his face might have perturbed the Mexicans had they known Billy Byrne of Grand Avenue better—­he was smiling happily.

Miguel had two ponies in his corral.  These the brigands appropriated, placing Billy upon one and Miguel and Bridge upon the other.  Billy’s great weight rendered it inadvisable to double him up with another rider.

As they were mounting Billy leaned toward Bridge and whispered: 

“I’ll get these guys, pal—­watch me,” he said.

“I am with thee, William!—­horse, foot, and artillery,” laughed Bridge.

“Which reminds me,” said Billy, “that I have an ace-in-the-hole —­the boobs never frisked me.”

“And I am reminded,” returned Bridge, as the horses started off to the yank of hackamore ropes in the hands of the brigands who were leading them, “of a touching little thing of Service’s: 

  Just think!  Some night the stars will gleam
    Upon a cold gray stone,
  And trace a name with silver beam,
    And lo! ’twill be your own.

“You’re a cheerful guy,” was Billy’s only comment.

CHAPTER VII

IN PESITA’S CAMP

Pesita was a short, stocky man with a large, dark mustache.  He attired himself after his own ideas of what should constitute the uniform of a general—­ideas more or less influenced and modified by the chance and caprice of fortune.

At the moment that Billy, Bridge, and Miguel were dragged into his presence his torso was enwrapped in a once resplendent coat covered with yards of gold braid.  Upon his shoulders were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one’s mind with the ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of fifteen or twenty years ago.  Upon his legs were some rusty and ragged overalls.  His feet were bare.

He scowled ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant narrated the thrilling facts of their capture—­thrilling by embellishment.

“You are Americanos?” he asked of Bridge and Billy.

Both agreed that they were.  Then Pesita turned toward Miguel.

“Where is Villa?” he asked.

“How should I know, my general?” parried Miguel.  “Who am I—­a poor man with a tiny rancho—­to know of the movements of the great ones of the earth?  I did not even know where was the great General Pesita until now I am brought into his gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet and implore that I be permitted to serve him in even the meanest of capacities.”