unded the pounding
of many hoofs.

"Villa," moaned Westcott Clark, hopelessly. "We're done for now, sure
enough. He must be comin' back from his raid on the border."

In the faint light of dawn they saw a column of horsemen deploy suddenly
into a long, thin line which galloped forward over the flat earth,
coming toward them like a huge, relentless engine of destruction.

The Pesitistas were watching too. They had ceased firing and sat in
their saddles forgetful of their contemplated charge.

The occupants of the ranchhouse were gathered at the small windows.

"What's them?" cried Mason--"them things floating over 'em."

"They're guidons!" exclaimed Price Clark "--the guidons of the United
States cavalry regiment. See 'em! See 'em? God! but don't they look
good?"

There was a wild whoop from the lungs of the advancing cavalrymen.
Pesita's troops answered it with a scattering volley, and a moment later
the Americans were among them in that famous revolver charge which is
now history.

Daylight had come revealing to the watchers in the ranchhouse the
figures of the combatants. In the thick of the fight loomed the giant
figure of a man in nondescript garb which more closely resembled the
apparel of the Pesitistas than it did the uniforms of the American
soldiery, yet it was with them he fought. Barbara's eyes were the first
to detect him.

"There's Mr. Byrne," she cried. "It must have been he who brought the
troops."

"Why, he hasn't had time to reach the border yet," remonstrated one of
the Clark boys, "much less get back here with help."

"There he is though," said Mr. Harding. "It's certainly strange. I can't
understand what American troops are doing across the border--especially
under the present administration."

The Pesitistas held their ground for but a moment then they wheeled and
fled; but not before Pesita himself had forced his pony close to that of
Billy Byrne.

"Traitor!" screamed the bandit. "You shall die for this," and fired
point-blank at the American.

Billy felt a burning sensation in his already wounded left arm; but his
right was still good.

"For poor, bleeding Mexico!" he cried, and put a bullet through Pesita's
forehead.

Under escort of the men of the Thirteenth Cavalry who had pursued
Villa's raiders into Mexico and upon whom Billy Byrne had stumbled by
chance, the little party of fugitives came safely to United States soil,
where all but one breathed sighs of heartfelt reli