They had reached a point on the river not far from Jose’s when a band of horsemen appeared approaching from the west.  Billy urged his party to greater speed that they might avoid a meeting if possible; but it soon became evident that the strangers had no intention of permitting them to go unchallenged, for they altered their course and increased their speed so that they were soon bearing down upon the fugitives at a rapid gallop.

“I guess,” said Billy, “that we’d better open up on ’em.  It’s a cinch they ain’t no friends of ours anywhere in these parts.”

“Hadn’t we better wait a moment,” said Mr. Harding; “we do not want to chance making any mistake.”

“It ain’t never a mistake to shoot a Dago,” replied Billy.  His eyes were fastened upon the approaching horsemen, and he presently gave an exclamation of recognition.  “There’s Rozales,” he said.  “I couldn’t mistake that beanpole nowheres.  We’re safe enough in takin’ a shot at ’em if Rosie’s with ’em.  He’s Pesita’s head guy,” and he drew his revolver and took a single shot in the direction of his former comrades.  Bridge followed his example.  The oncoming Pesitistas reined in.  Billy returned his revolver to its holster and drew his carbine.

“You ride on ahead,” he said to Mr. Harding and Barbara.  “Bridge and I’ll bring up the rear.”

Then he stopped his pony and turning took deliberate aim at the knot of horsemen to their left.  A bandit tumbled from his saddle and the fight was on.

Fortunately for the Americans Rozales had but a handful of men with him and Rozales himself was never keen for a fight in the open.

All morning he hovered around the rear of the escaping Americans; but neither side did much damage to the other, and during the afternoon Billy noticed that Rozales merely followed within sight of them, after having dispatched one of his men back in the direction from which they had come.

“After reinforcements,” commented Byrne.

All day they rode without meeting with any roving bands of soldiers or bandits, and the explanation was all too sinister to the Americans when coupled with the knowledge that Villa was to attack an American town that night.

“I wish we could reach the border in time to warn ’em,” said Billy; “but they ain’t no chance.  If we cross before sunup tomorrow morning we’ll be doin’ well.”

He had scarcely spoken to Barbara Harding all day, for his duties as rear guard had kept him busy; nor had he conversed much with Bridge, though he had often eyed the latter whose gaze wandered many times to the slender, graceful figure of the girl ahead of them.

Billy was thinking as he never had thought before.  It seemed to him a cruel fate that had so shaped their destinies that his best friend loved the girl Billy loved.  That Bridge was ignorant of Billy’s infatuation for her the latter well knew.  He could not blame Bridge, nor could he, upon the other hand, quite reconcile himself to the more than apparent adoration which marked his friend’s attitude toward Barbara.