A little later, above the high-pitched rattle of the wagon wheels, they heard the raucous, long-drawn "Yank-ee doo-oo-dle da-a-andy!" which confirmed their suspicions and identified the comers as gringos beyond a doubt.
"Must be a crowd from San Francisco," said Jack needlessly.

"I wrote and told Bill about the fiesta, when I sent up after some clothes.

I told him to come down and take it in--and I guess he's coming." Bill was; and he was coming largely, emphatically, and vaingloriously.
He had a wagon well loaded with his more intimate friends, including Jim.

He had a following of half his Committee of Vigilance and all the men of like caliber who could find a horse or a mule to straddle.

Even the Roman-nosed buckskin of sinister history was in the van of the procession that came charging up the slope with all the speed it could muster after the journey from the town on the tip of the peninsula.
In the wagon were a drum, two fifes, a cornet, and much confusion of voices.