Billy, casting an occasional glance behind, saw the danger in time to meet it—­just, in fact, as the weapon was cutting through the air toward his head.  Dropping Bridge and dodging to one side he managed to escape the cut, and before the swordsman could recover Billy had leaped to his pony’s side and seizing the rider about the waist dragged him to the ground.

“Rozales!” he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck another in all his life, with the full force of his mighty muscles backed by his great weight, with clenched fist full in the face.

There was a spurting of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain Guillermo Rozales sank senseless to the ground, his career of crime and rapine ended forever.

Again Billy lifted Bridge in his arms and this time he succeeded in reaching the ranchhouse without opposition though a little crimson stream trickled down his left arm to drop upon the face of his friend as he deposited Bridge upon the floor of the house.

All night the Pesitistas circled the lone ranchhouse.  All night they poured their volleys into the adobe walls and through the barricaded windows.  All night the little band of defenders fought gallantly for their lives; but as day approached the futility of their endeavors was borne in upon them, for of the nine one was dead and three wounded, and the numbers of their assailants seemed undiminished.

Billy Byrne had been lying all night upon his stomach before a window firing out into the darkness at the dim forms which occasionally showed against the dull, dead background of the moonless desert.

Presently he leaped to his feet and crossed the floor to the room in which the horses had been placed.

“Everybody fire toward the rear of the house as fast as they can,” said Billy.  “I want a clear space for my getaway.”

“Where you goin?” asked one of the Clark brothers.

“North,” replied Billy, “after some of Funston’s men on the border.”

“But they won’t cross,” said Mr. Harding.  “Washington won’t let them.”

“They gotta,” snapped Billy Byrne, “an’ they will when they know there’s an American girl here with a bunch of Dagos yappin’ around.”

“You’ll be killed,” said Price Clark.  “You can’t never get through.”

“Leave it to me,” replied Billy.  “Just get ready an’ open that back door when I give the word, an’ then shut it again in a hurry when I’ve gone through.”

He led a horse from the side room, and mounted it.

“Open her up, boes!” he shouted, and “S’long everybody!”

Price Clark swung the door open.  Billy put spurs to his mount and threw himself forward flat against the animal’s neck.  Another moment he was through and a rattling fusillade of shots proclaimed the fact that his bold feat had not gone unnoted by the foe.

The little Mexican pony shot like a bolt from a crossbow out across the level desert.  The rattling of carbines only served to add speed to its frightened feet.  Billy sat erect in the saddle, guiding the horse with his left hand and working his revolver methodically with his right.