a short shrift.

difficult—indeed, impossible—for pen to describe the scene consequent upon the arrival of the rangers by the banks of the swollen stream, and finding it unfordable.

imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind!

his chagrin might be equal to that felt by the texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of hamersley and walt wilder. to symbolise theirs, it must be a man missing his ship homeward bound, with sweetheart, wife, child awaiting him at the end of the voyage, and in a port from which vessels take departure but “few and far between.”

these two, better than any of the texans, understand the obstruction that has arisen, in the same proportion as they are aggrieved by it. too well do they comprehend its fatal import. not hours, but whole days, may elapse before the flood subsides, the stream can be forded, the ravine ascended, and the pursuit continued.

hours—days! a single day—an hour—may seal the fate of those dear to them. the hearts of both are sad, their bosoms racked with anguish, as they sit in their saddles with eyes bent on the turbid stream, which cruelly forbids fording it.

in different degree and from a different cause the texans also suffer. some only disappointment, but others real chagrin. these last men, whose lives have been spent fighting their mexican foemen, hating them from the bottom of their hearts. they are those who knew the unfortunate fanning and the lamented bowie, who gave his name to their knives; some of themselves having escaped from the red massacre of goliad and the savage butchery of the alamo.

ever since they have been practising the lex talionis—seeking retaliation, and oft-times finding it. perhaps too often wreaking their vengeance on victims that might be innocent. now that guilty ones—real mexican soldiers in uniform, such as ruthlessly speared and shot down their countrymen at goliad and san antonio—now that a whole troop of these have but the hour before been within reach—almost striking distance—it is afflicting, maddening, to think they may escape.

and the more reflecting on the reason, so slight and accidental—a shower of rain swelling a tiny stream. for all this, staying their pursuit as effectively as if a sea of fire separated them from the foe, so despised and detested.

the lightning still flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down.

no use staying any longer by the side of the swollen stream, to be tantalised by its rapid, rushing current, and mocked by its foam-flakes dancing merrily along.

rather return to the forsaken ranche, and avail themselves of such shelter as it may afford.

in short, there seems no alternative; and, yielding to the necessity, they rein round, and commence the backward march, every eye glancing gloomily, every brow overcast.

they are all disappointed, most of them surly as bears that had been shot in the head, and have scratched the place to a sore. they are just in the humour to kill anyone, or anything, that should chance in their way.

but there is no one, and nothing; and, in the absence of an object to spend their spite upon, some counsel wreaking it on their captives—the traitor and renegade.

never during life were these two men nearer their end. to all appearance, in ten minutes more both will be dangling at the end of a rope suspended from a limb of a tree.

they are saved by a circumstance for them at least lucky, if unfortunate for some others.

just as a half-score of the rangers have clumped together under a spreading pecan-tree, intending to hang them upon one of its branches, a horse is heard to neigh. not one of their own, but an animal some way off the track, amid the trees. the hail is at once responded to by the steeds they are bestriding; and is promptly re-answered, not by one horse, but three neighing simultaneously.

a strange thing this, that calls for explanation. what horses can be there, save their own? and none of the rangers have ridden in the direction whence the “whighering” proceeds.

a dozen of them do so now; before they have gone far, finding three horses standing under the shadow of a large live oak, with three men mounted on their backs, who endeavour to keep concealed behind its broad buttressed trunk.

in vain. guided by the repeated neighing and continuous tramp of their horses, the rangers ride up, close around, and capture them.

led out into the light, the texans see before them three men in soldier garb—the uniform of mexican lancers. it is the corporal squad sent back by uraga to bring on the truant traitor.

of their errand the rangers know nought, and nothing care. enough that three of their hated foemen are in their hands, their hostility intensified by the events of the hour.

no more fuel is needed to fire them up. their vengeance demands a victim, and three have offered ready to hand.

as they ride back to the road, they leave behind them a tableau, telling of a spectacle just passed—one having a frightful finale. from a large limb of the live oak, extending horizontally, hang three men, the mexican lancers. they are suspended by the neck, dangling, dead!