Part 27 (1/2)

A wild scamper of horses' hoofs was heard and in a moment there came tearing down the road a whole troop of mounted Mexicans, evidently in flight, for they turned and fired from their saddles as they rode. The horses that carried them were wild with excitement and flecked with foam.

The Mexican cavalry men shouted and yelled, brandis.h.i.+ng their machetes and firing their revolvers. Here and there a horse and rider fell to the ground in a great whirl of sand and dust. In the thick of the press, a leader of ferocious aspect, mounted upon a gigantic black horse, waved his sombrero about his head.

”Villa--it is Villa!” cried Raymon, tense with excitement.

”Is he not _magnifico?_ But look! Look--the _Americanos!_ They are coming!”

It was a glorious sight to see them as they rode madly on the heels of the Mexicans--a whole company of American cavalry, their horses shoulder to shoulder, the men bent low in their saddles, their carbines gripped in their hands. They rode in squadrons and in line, not like the shouting, confused ma.s.s of the Mexicans--but steady, disciplined, irresistible.

On the right flank in front a grey-haired officer steadied the charging line. The excitement of it was maddening.

”Go to it,” I shouted in uncontrollable emotion. ”Your Mexicans are licked, Raymon, they're no good!”

”But look!” said Raymon. ”See--the ambush, the ambuscada!”

For as they reached the centre of the gorge in front of us the Mexicans suddenly checked their horses, bringing them plunging on their haunches in the dust, and then swung round upon their pursuers, while from every crag and bush at the side of the gorge the concealed riflemen sprang into view--and the sputtering of the machine guns swept the advancing column with a volley.

We could see the American line checked as with the buffet of a great wave, men and horses rolling in the road.

Through the smoke one saw the grey-haired leader --dismounted, his uniform torn, his hat gone, but still brandis.h.i.+ng his sword and calling his orders to his men, his face as one caught in a flash of sunlight, steady and fearless. His words I could not hear, but one saw the American cavalry, still unbroken, dismount, throw themselves behind their horses, and fire with steady aim into the ma.s.s of the Mexicans. We could see the Mexicans in front of where we stood falling thick and fast, in little huddled bundles of colour, kicking the sand. The man Pete had gone down right in the foreground and was breathing out his soul before our eyes.

”Well done,” I shouted. ”Go to it, boys! You can lick 'em yet! Hurrah for the United States. Look, Raymon, look! They've shot down the crew of the machine guns.

See, see, the Mexicans are turning to run. At 'em, boys!

They're waving the American flag! There it is in all the thick of the smoke! Hark! There's the bugle call to mount again! They're going to charge again! Here they come!”

As the American cavalry came tearing forward, the Mexicans leaped from their places with gestures of mingled rage and terror as if about to break and run.

The battle, had it continued, could have but one end.

But at this moment we heard from the town behind us the long sustained note of a steam whistle blowing the hour of noon.

In an instant the firing ceased.

The battle stopped. The Mexicans picked themselves up off the ground and began brus.h.i.+ng off the dust from their black velvet jackets. The American cavalry reined in their horses. Dead Pete came to life. General Villa and the American leader and a number of others strolled over towards the boss, who stood beside the fence vociferating his comments.

”That won't do!” he was shouting. ”That won't do! Where in blazes was that infernal Sister of Mercy? Miss Jenkinson!” and he called to a tall girl, whom I now noticed for the first time among the crowd, wearing a sort of khaki costume and a short skirt and carrying a water bottle in a strap. ”You never got into the picture at all. I want you right in there among the horses, under their feet.”

”Land sakes!” said the Sister of Mercy. ”You ain't no right to ask me to go in there among them horses and be trampled.”

”Ain't you _paid_ to be trampled?” said the manager angrily. Then as he caught sight of Villa he broke off and said: ”Frank, you boys done fine. It's going to be a good act, all right. But it ain't just got the right amount of ginger in it yet. We'll try her over _once_ again, anyway.”

”Now, boys,” he continued, calling out to the crowd with a voice like a megaphone, ”this afternoon at three-thirty --Hospital scene. I only want the wounded, the doctors and the Sisters of Mercy. All the rest of youse is free till ten to-morrow--for the Indian Ma.s.sacre. Everybody up for that.”

It was an hour or two later that I had my interview with Villa in a back room of the little _posada_, or inn, of the town. The General had removed his ferocious wig of straight black hair, and subst.i.tuted a check suit for his warlike costume. He had washed the darker part of the paint off his face--in fact, he looked once again the same Frank Villa that I used to know when he kept his Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.

”Well, Frank,” I said, ”I'm afraid I came down here under a misunderstanding.”

”Looks like it,” said the General, as he rolled a cigarette.

”And you wouldn't care to go back even for the offer that I am commissioned to make--your old job back again, and half the profits on a new cigar to be called the Francesco Villa?”

The General shook his head.

”It sounds good, all right,” he said, ”but this moving-picture business is better.”