His mount was the largest
that the picket line of Pesita's forces could produce. Billy
loomed large amongst his men.
For an hour they rode along the trail, Billy and Bridge
conversing upon various subjects, none of which touched
upon the one uppermost in the mind of each. Miguel rode,
silent and preoccupied. The evening before he had whispered
something to Bridge as he had crawled out of the darkness to
lie close to the American, and during a brief moment that
morning Bridge had found an opportunity to relay the Mexican's
message to Billy Byrne.
The latter had but raised his eyebrows a trifle at the time,
but later he smiled more than was usual with him. Something
seemed to please him immensely.
Beside him at the head of the column rode Bridge and
Miguel. Behind them trailed the six swarthy little troopers--
the picked men upon whom Pesita could depend.
They had reached a point where the trail passes through a
narrow dry arroyo which the waters of the rainy season had
cut deep into the soft, powdery soil. Upon either bank grew
cacti and mesquite, forming a sheltering screen behind which a
regiment might have hidden. The place was ideal for an
ambuscade.
"Here, Senor Capitan," whispered Miguel, as they neared
the entrance to the trap.
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