Outside a dozen men were battering to force an entrance.  Already one panel had splintered, and as Bridge entered the room he could see the figures of the bandits through the hole they had made.  Raising his rifle he fired through the aperture.  There was a scream as one of the attackers dropped; but the others only increased their efforts, their oaths, and their threats of vengeance.

The three defenders poured a few rounds through the sagging door, then Bridge noted that the Chinaman ceased firing.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Allee gonee,” replied Sing, pointing to his ammunition belt.

At the same instant the Mexican threw down his carbine and rushed for a window on the opposite side of the room.  His ammunition was exhausted and with it had departed his courage.  Flight seemed the only course remaining.  Bridge made no effort to stop him.  He would have been glad to fly, too; but he could not leave Anthony Harding, and he was sure that the older man would prove unequal to any sustained flight on foot.

“You better go, too, Sing,” he said to the Chinaman, placing another bullet through the door; “there’s nothing more that you can do, and it may be that they are all on this side now—­I think they are.  You fellows have fought splendidly.  Wish I could give you something more substantial than thanks; but that’s all I have now and shortly Pesita won’t even leave me that much.”

“Allee light,” replied Sing cheerfully, and a second later he was clambering through the window in the wake of the loyal Mexican.

And then the door crashed in and half a dozen troopers followed by Pesita himself burst into the room.

Bridge was standing at the foot of the stairs, his carbine clubbed, for he had just spent his last bullet.  He knew that he must die; but he was determined to make them purchase his life as dearly as he could, and to die in defense of Anthony Harding, the father of the girl he loved, even though hopelessly.

Pesita saw from the American’s attitude that he had no more ammunition.  He struck up the carbine of a trooper who was about to shoot Bridge down.

“Wait!” commanded the bandit.  “Cease firing!  His ammunition is gone.  Will you surrender?” he asked of Bridge.

“Not until I have beaten from the heads of one or two of your friends,” he replied, “that which their egotism leads them to imagine are brains.  No, if you take me alive, Pesita, you will have to kill me to do it.”

Pesita shrugged.  “Very well,” he said, indifferently, “it makes little difference to me—­that stairway is as good as a wall.  These brave defenders of the liberty of poor, bleeding Mexico will make an excellent firing squad.  Attention, my children!  Ready!  Aim!”

Eleven carbines were leveled at Bridge.  In the ghastly light of early dawn the sallow complexions of the Mexicans took on a weird hue.  The American made a wry face, a slight shudder shook his slender frame, and then he squared his shoulders and looked Pesita smilingly in the face.