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.
At a window behind him Barbara Harding stood breathless
and spellbound until he had disappeared into the gloom of the
early morning darkness to the north, then she turned with a
weary sigh and resumed her place beside the wounded Bridge
whose head she bathed with cool water, while he tossed in the
delirium of fever.
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