The latter had but raised his eyebrows a trifle at the time, but later he smiled more than was usual with him.  Something seemed to please him immensely.

Beside him at the head of the column rode Bridge and Miguel.  Behind them trailed the six swarthy little troopers—­ the picked men upon whom Pesita could depend.

They had reached a point where the trail passes through a narrow dry arroyo which the waters of the rainy season had cut deep into the soft, powdery soil.  Upon either bank grew cacti and mesquite, forming a sheltering screen behind which a regiment might have hidden.  The place was ideal for an ambuscade.

“Here, Senor Capitan,” whispered Miguel, as they neared the entrance to the trap.

A low hill shut off from their view all but the head of the cut, and it also hid them from the sight of any possible enemy which might have been lurking in wait for them farther down the arroyo.

At Miguel’s words Byrne wheeled his horse to the right away from the trail which led through the bottom of the waterway and around the base of the hill, or rather in that direction, for he had scarce deviated from the direct way before one of the troopers spurred to his side, calling out in Spanish that he was upon the wrong trail.

“Wot’s this guy chewin’ about?” asked Billy, turning to Miguel.

“He says you must keep to the arroyo, Senor Capitan,” explained the Mexican.

“Tell him to go back into his stall,” was Byrne’s laconic rejoinder, as he pushed his mount forward to pass the brigand.

The soldier was voluble in his objections.  Again he reined in front of Billy, and by this time his five fellows had spurred forward to block the way.

“This is the wrong trail,” they cried.  “Come this other way, Capitan.  Pesita has so ordered it.”

Catching the drift of their remarks, Billy waved them to one side.

“I’m bossin’ this picnic,” he announced.  “Get out o’ the way, an’ be quick about it if you don’t want to be hurted.”

Again he rode forward.  Again the troopers interposed their mounts, and this time their leader cocked his carbine.  His attitude was menacing.  Billy was close to him.  Their ponies were shoulder to shoulder, that of the bandit almost broadside of the trail.

Now Billy Byrne was more than passing well acquainted with many of the fundamental principles of sudden brawls.  It is safe to say that he had never heard of Van Bibber; but he knew, as well as Van Bibber knew, that it is well to hit first.

Without a word and without warning he struck, leaning forward with all the weight of his body behind his blow, and catching the man full beneath the chin he lifted him as neatly from his saddle as though a battering ram had struck him.

Simultaneously Bridge and Miguel drew revolvers from their shirts and as Billy wheeled his pony toward the remaining five they opened fire upon them.