quarrelling over scalps.

nearly simultaneous with the departure of the two horsemen came the closing scene of the conflict. indeed it ended on the instant of their riding off. for of their comrades left behind there was not one upon his feet—not one able to fire another shot, or strike another blow. all lay dead, or wounded, among the waggons; some of the dead, as the wounded, clasping the handle of a knife whose blade reeked with blood, or a pistol from whose muzzle the smoke was still oozing.

but soon among the whites there were no wounded, for the hovering host, having closed in from all sides, leaped from their horses, swarmed over the barrier between, tomahawking the last that showed signs of life, or thrusting them with their long lances, and pinning them to the sand. through the body of every white man at least a half-dozen spear-blades were passed, while a like number of savages stood exultingly over, or danced triumphantly around it.

and now ensued a scene that might be symbolised only among wild beasts or fiends in the infernal regions. it was a contest for possession of the scalps of those who had fallen—each of the victors claiming one. some stood with bared blades ready to peel them off, while others held out hands and weapons to prevent it. from the lips of the competitors came shouts and expostulations, while their eyes flashed fire, and their arms rose and fell in furious gesticulations.

amidst their demoniac jargon could be heard a voice louder than all, thundering forth a command. it was to desist from their threatening strife and extinguish the flames that still flared up over the waggons. he who spoke was the one with the red cross upon his breast, its bars of bright vermilion gleaming like fire against the sombre background of his skin. he was the chief of the tenawa comanches—the horned lizard—as wilder had justly conjectured.

and as their chief he was instantly obeyed. the wranglers, one and all, promptly suspended their disputes; and flinging their weapons aside, at once set to carrying out his orders.

seizing upon the shovels, late dropped from the hands of their now lifeless antagonists, and plying them to better purpose, they soon smothered the flame, and the smoke too, till only a thin drift stole up through the sand thrown thickly over it.

meanwhile a man, in appearance somewhat differing from the rest, was seen moving among them.

indian in garb and guise, savage in his accoutrements, as the colour of his skin, he nevertheless, showed features more resembling races that are civilised. his countenance was of a cast apparently caucasian, its lineaments unlike those of the american aboriginal; above all, unlike in his having a heavy beard, growing well forward upon his cheeks, and bushing down below the chin.

true, that among the comanche indians bearded men are occasionally met with—mestizos, the descendants of renegade whites. but none paraded as he, who now appeared stalking around the ruined caravan. and there was another individual by his side, who had also hair upon his cheeks, though thinner and more straggling; while the speech passing between the two was not the guttural tongue of the tenawa comanches, but pure mexican spanish.

both were on foot, having dismounted; he with the heavy beard leading, the other keeping after as if in attendance.

the former flitted from one to another of those who lay slain; in turn stooping over each corpse, and scrutinising it—to some giving but a cursory glance, to others more careful examination—then leaving each with an air of disappointment, and a corresponding exclamation.

at length, after going the complete round of the dead, he faced towards his satellite, saying,—

“por dios! he don’t appear to be among them! what can it mean? there could be no doubt of his intention to accompany the caravan. here it is, and here we are; but where is he? carajo! if he has escaped me, i shall feel as if i’d had all this trouble for nothing.”

“think of the precious plunder,” rejoined the other. “these grand carretas are loaded with rich goods. surely they don’t count for nothing.”

“a fig for the goods! i’d give more for his scalp than all the silks and satins that were ever carried to santa fé. not that i’d care to keep such a trifle. the horned lizard will be welcome to it, soon as i see it stripped from his skull. that’s what i want to see. but where is it? where is he? certainly not among these. there isn’t one of them the least like him. surely it must be his party, spoken of in his letter? no other has been heard of coming by this route. there they lie, all stark and staring—men, mules, and horses—all but him.”

the smoke has thinned off, only a thin film still wafting about the waggons, whose canvas tilts, now consumed, expose their contents—some of them badly burnt, some but slightly scorched. the freebooters have commenced to drag out boxes and bales, their chief by a stern command having restrained them from returning to take the scalps of the slain. all has been the work of only a few moments—less than ten minutes of time—for it is scarce so much since wilder and hamersley, stealing out between the wheels, rode off under cover of the cloud.

by this he with the beard, speaking spanish, has ceased to scrutinise the corpses, and stands facing his inferior, his countenance showing an air of puzzled disappointment, as proclaimed by his repeated speeches.

once again he gives speech to his perplexity, exclaiming:

“demonios! i don’t understand it. is it possible that any of them can have got away?”

as he puts the question there comes a shout from outside, seeming to answer it. for it is a cry half in lamentation—a sort of wail, altogether unlike the charging war-whoop of the comanches. acquainted with their signals, he knows that the one he has heard tells of an enemy trying to escape.

hurrying outside the corral, he sees two mounted men, nearly a mile off, making in the direction of the cliffs. and nearer, a score of other men, in the act of mounting, these being indians, who have just caught sight of the fugitives, and are starting to pursue.

more eager than any, he rushes direct to his horse, and, having reached, bestrides him at a spring. then, plunging deep the spur, he dashed off across the plain towards the point where the two men are seen making away. who both may be he knows not, nor of one need he care; but of one he does, feeling sure it is the same for whom he has been searching among the slain.

“not dead yet, but soon shall be!”

so mutters he, as with clenched teeth, bridle tight-drawn, and fingers firmly clasping the butt of a double-barrelled pistol, he spurs on after the two horsemen, who, heading straight for the cliff, seem as if they had no chance to escape; for their pursuers are closing after them in a cloud, dark as the dreaded “norther” that sweeps over the texan desert, with shout symbolising the clangour that accompanies it.