CHAPTER XII

BILLY TO THE RESCUE

It was nearly ten o’clock the following morning when Barbara, sitting upon the veranda of the ranchhouse, saw her father approaching from the direction of the office.  His face wore a troubled expression which the girl could not but note.

“What’s the matter, Papa?” she asked, as he sank into a chair at her side.

“Your self-sacrifice of last evening was all to no avail,” he replied.  “Bridge has been captured by Villistas.”

“What?” cried the girl.  “You can’t mean it—­how did you learn?”

“Grayson just had a phone message from Cuivaca,” he explained.  “They only repaired the line yesterday since Pesita’s men cut it last month.  This was our first message.  And do you know, Barbara, I can’t help feeling sorry.  I had hoped that he would get away.”

“So had I,” said the girl.

Her father was eyeing her closely to note the effect of his announcement upon her; but he could see no greater concern reflected than that which he himself felt for a fellow-man and an American who was doomed to death at the hands of an alien race, far from his own land and his own people.

“Can nothing be done?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied with finality.  “I have talked it over with Grayson and he assures me that an attempt at intervention upon our part might tend to antagonize Villa, in which case we are all as good as lost.  He is none too fond of us as it is, and Grayson believes, and not without reason, that he would welcome the slightest pretext for withdrawing the protection of his favor.  Instantly he did that we should become the prey of every marauding band that infests the mountains.  Not only would Pesita swoop down upon us, but those companies of freebooters which acknowledge nominal loyalty to Villa would be about our ears in no time.  No, dear, we may do nothing.  The young man has made his bed, and now I am afraid that he will have to lie in it alone.”

For awhile the girl sat in silence, and presently her father arose and entered the house.  Shortly after she followed him, reappearing soon in riding togs and walking rapidly to the corrals.  Here she found an American cowboy busily engaged in whittling a stick as he sat upon an upturned cracker box and shot accurate streams of tobacco juice at a couple of industrious tumble bugs that had had the great impudence to roll their little ball of provender within the whittler’s range.

“O Eddie!” she cried.

The man looked up, and was at once electrified into action.  He sprang to his feet and whipped off his sombrero.  A broad smile illumined his freckled face.

“Yes, miss,” he answered.  “What can I do for you?”

“Saddle a pony for me, Eddie,” she explained.  “I want to take a little ride.”

“Sure!” he assured her cheerily.  “Have it ready in a jiffy,” and away he went, uncoiling his riata, toward the little group of saddle ponies which stood in the corral against necessity for instant use.