"Halt! About face and go back into 'em!" ordered Lieutenant Hal. The
mob, feeling itself hemmed in between two parallel lines of bayonets,
gave sufficiently to let the military party reunite.

"Where's the Eagle Hotel?" Hal shouted hoarsely, as a Texan, rifle in
hand, showed himself at an open window.

"Two blocks up. You can't mistake it!" came back the roaring answer.

As the two ranks of soldiers tried to go on at the double quick, two or
three hundred of the mob tried to follow at their heels.

"Second squad halt! About face!" yelled Lieutenant Prescott. "Load!
Aim!"

Then he turned to his chum.

"Fire if you have to, Holmesy. I've got to leave you and run forward!"

Lieutenant Greg Holmes nodded his understanding. Then he stood there,
grim-faced and watchful, mindful, also, of his orders not to fire on
rioters unless it became absolutely necessary.

But the sight of ten Army rifles staring them in the face caused the mob
to halt for a moment or two, whereupon Holmes faced his men about,
continuing the march. Twice more he found it necessary to halt and
menace the enraged followers.

Ahead was another mob not much smaller. These men were in front of the
Eagle Hotel as the first squad ran up.

"Charge!" yelled Lieutenant Hal. "Charge!" echoed Greg Holmes. There was
another sharp, ugly clash. Bayonets prodded, swords thrust, Tom Halstead
wielded his club and Hank was busy with his weight.

Dave, Dick and Noll, as soon as they could reach the hotel, dashed away
from the troops toward the front entrance of the hotel, which stood
open, battered down as it had been by the mob.

As these three rescuers darted into the lobby, a woman's scream sounded
from a room not far away. Into this dashed the three young officers.
Just before they vanished Tom Halstead and Hank Butts rushed in,
catching sight of their friends.

In the billiard room of the hotel stood Mrs. Bentley, leaning against a
wall and looking ready to faint. Laura Bentley, far more beautiful than
when we saw her last, had caught up a chair, with which she was
threatening a dark-haired young Mexican who sought to reach her. Belle
Meade, her dark beauty unmarred by the look of anger in her face, had
snatched up a cue, with which she was menacing another young Mexican
dandy. Four or five other Mexicans stood in the room, interested
spectators.

"A reminder for you, my friend!" muttered Dick Prescott hoarsely, as he
ran his sword-point into the thigh