The first streaks of daylight were piercing the heavens, the
Pesitistas were rallying for a decisive charge, the hopes of the
little band of besieged were at low ebb when from the west
there sounded 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.
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