What other thoughts Billy might have had upon the subject were rudely interrupted by four energetic gentlemen in his rear, who leaped upon him simultaneously and dragged him to the ground.  Billy made no outcry; but he fought none the less strenuously for his freedom, and he fought after the manner of Grand Avenue, which is not a pretty, however effective, way it may be.

But four against one when all the advantages lie with the four are heavy odds, and when Grayson and Jose ran out to investigate, and the ranch foreman added his weight to that of the others Billy was finally subdued.  That each of his antagonists would carry mementos of the battle for many days was slight compensation for the loss of liberty.  However, it was some.

After disarming their captive and tying his hands at his back they jerked him to his feet and examined him.

“Who are you?” asked Grayson.  “What you doin’ sneakin’ ‘round spyin’ on me, eh?”

“If you wanna know who I am, bo,” replied Billy, “go ask de Harlem Hurricane, an’ as fer spyin’ on youse, I wasn’t; but from de looks I guess youse need spyin, yuh tinhorn.”

A pony whinnied a short distance from the hut.

“That must be his horse,” said one of the Villistas, and walked away to investigate, returning shortly after with the pinto pony and Brazos.

The moment Grayson saw the latter he gave an exclamation of understanding.

“I know him now,” he said.  “You’ve made a good catch, Sergeant.  This is the fellow who robbed the bank at Cuivaca.  I recognize him from the descriptions I’ve had of him, and the fact that he’s got the Brazos pony makes it a cinch.  Villa oughter promote you for this.”

“Yep,” interjected Billy, “he orter make youse an admiral at least; but youse ain’t got me home yet, an’ it’ll take more’n four Dagos an’ a tin-horn to do it.”

“They’ll get you there all right, my friend,” Grayson assured him.  “Now come along.”

They bundled Billy into his own saddle, and shortly after the little party was winding southward along the river in the direction of El Orobo Rancho, with the intention of putting up there for the balance of the night where their prisoner could be properly secured and guarded.  As they rode away from the dilapidated hut of the Indian the old man stood silhouetted against the rectangle of dim light which marked the open doorway, and shook his fist at the back of the departing ranch foreman.

“El cochino!” he cackled, and turned back into his hut.

At El Orobo Rancho Barbara walked to and fro outside the ranchhouse.  Within her father sat reading beneath the rays of an oil lamp.  From the quarters of the men came the strains of guitar music, and an occasional loud laugh indicated the climax of some of Eddie Shorter’s famous Kansas farmer stories.

Barbara was upon the point of returning indoors when her attention was attracted by the approach of a half-dozen horsemen.  They reined into the ranchyard and dismounted before the office building.  Wondering a little who came so late, Barbara entered the house, mentioning casually to her father that which she had just seen.