an history will remember how the Mier
prisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon their
guards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around.
This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by the
terrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added to
many insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not only
by the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. These
had grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.

It brought about the crisis for a long time accumulating, and which the
Texans anticipated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them,
talked over and perfected a plan of escape.

By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelessly
lounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, a
signal shout was heard.

"Now, boys, up and at them!" were the words, with some others following,
which all well understood--almost a repetition of the famous order of
Wellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it the
Texans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them their
weapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formed
ranks of the enemy out into the open country.

So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, it
proved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force--fresh
troops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the late
escort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation and
defeat--the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they were
entire strangers--a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and,
worse still, without water,--not strange that all, or nearly all, of
them were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.

Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for little
better than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exulting
fiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that all
were to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. No
doubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and our
hero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more have
been heard of; in other words, the novel of the "Free Lances" would not
have been written. But among those reckless avengers there were some
who knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was