after the execution.

it is mid-day over the arroyo de alamo.

the same sun whose early morning rays fell around the deliberating lynchers, at a later hour lighting up a spectacle of execution, has mounted to the meridian, and now glares down upon a spectacle still sanguinary, though with tableaux changed.

the camp is deserted. there are no tents, no texans, no horses, nor yet any mules. all have disappeared from the place.

true, uraga and his lancers are still there—in body, not in spirit. their souls have gone, no one may know whither. only their clay-cold forms remain, us left by the rangers—the common soldiers lying upon the grass, the two officers swinging side by side, from the trees, with broken necks, drooping heads, and limbs dangling down—all alike corpses.

not for long do they stay unchanged—untouched.

scarce has the last hoof-stroke of the texan horses died away down the valley, when the buzzards forsake their perch upon the bluff, and swoop down to the creek bottom.

simultaneously the wolves—grand grey and coyote—come sneaking out from the thicket’s edge; at first cautiously, soon with bolder front, approaching the abandoned bodies.

to the bark of the coyote, the bay of the bigger wolf, and the buzzard’s hoarse croak, a caracara adds its shrill note; the fiend-like chorus further strengthened by the scream of the white-headed eagle—for all the world like the filing of a frame saw, and not unlike the wild, unmeaning laughter of a madman.

both the predatory birds and the ravening beasts, with instincts in accord, gather around the quarry killed for them. there is a grand feast—a banquet for all; and they have no need to quarrel over it. but they do—the birds having to stand back till the beasts have eaten their fill.

the puma, or panther, takes precedence—the so-called lion of america. a sorry brute to bear the name belonging to the king of quadrupeds. still, on the llano estacado, lord of all, save when confronted by the grizzly bear—then he becomes a cat.

as no grizzly has yet come upon the ground, and only two panthers, the wolves have it almost their own way, and only the vultures and eagles have to hold back. but for the birds there is a side dish on which they may whet their appetites, beyond reach of the beasts. to their share fall the two suspended from the trees; and, driven off from the others, they attack these with beak and talon, flapping around, settling upon the branches above, on the shoulders of the corpses, thick as honey-bees upon a branch, pecking out eyes, tearing at flesh, mutilating man—god’s image—in every conceivable mode.

no; there is one left, peculiar to man himself. strange, at this crisis, he should appear to give exhibition of it. by pure chance—a sheer contingency—though not less deserving record.

the beasts and birds while engaged in devouring the dead bodies are interrupted and scared away from their filthy repast, retreating suddenly from the ground at sight of their masters—men, who unexpectedly appear upon it.

these are not the rangers returning, but a band of jicarilla apaches—young braves out on a roving excursion. they have come down the creek, making for the pecos, and so chanced to stray into the deserted camp.

surprised at the spectacle there presented to their eyes, they are not the less delighted. more than a dozen dead men, with scalps untaken! they can see there has been a fight, but do not stay to think who have been the victors. their thoughts are turned towards the vanquished, their eyes resting on heads that still carry their covering of hair. in a trice their blades are bare, and it is cut off—the skin along with it—to the skull of the last lancer!

neither does uraga nor his lieutenant escape the scalping-knife. before the savages part from the spot, the crowns of both show crimson, while the scalps stripped off appear as trophies on the points of two apache spears.

not long do the indians dally on the ghastly ground. soon forsaking it, they continue on down the creek. not in pursuit of the party which has so opportunely furnished them with spear-pennons and fringes for their leggings. the testimony of so many dead men, with the tracks of so many horses—horses with large hoofs, evidently not ridden by mexicans, whom they contemn, but texans they terribly fear; these evidences make the apaches cautious, and, keeping on towards the pecos, they go not as pursuers, but men trying to shun the party that has passed before.

in this they are successful. they never sight the returning texans, nor these them. the rangers go down the river; the savages up stream. of all apaches, of all indians, the jicarillas are the most contemptible cowards. dastards to the last degree, the young “braves” who mutilated the slain lancers will return to their tribe to tell of scalps fairly taken in fight!

and while they are boasting, the wolves, eagles, and vultures will be back among the dead bodies, strip them of their flesh, and leave nought but their bones to bleach white; in time to become dust, and mingle with the earth on which they once moved in all the pride of manhood and panoply of war!