cans. However, a second and third blast were
better gauged, and these carpeted the new alley-way with Republican
bodies. Also, the Imperialists were re-forming, and under a withering
fire the little band of victors had to draw back to the Cimatario.

As Escobedo's reserve occupied the hill, Driscoll marched his own force
behind the same to get his horses there. But the mustangs of the
brigands had disappeared, and far to the southwest were the brigands
themselves, moving swiftly over the plain toward the mountains. They
hardly numbered two-score now, and at that distance seemed a few men
herding a drove of empty saddles. The late indignant patriot, Don
Rodrigo, had changed back to outlaw. As another Cid, he might have
looked for pardon from a grateful country, but possibly he feared the
Roman justice of Juarez too much to risk it. Besides, a man will not
lightly give up his career. That same night Rodrigo lay again among the
sierras, quite ready for the first bullion convoy or beautiful
marchioness passing by.

Shells and minie balls were yet dropping perfunctorily, and the llano
between hill and town was still a dangerous place enough, but scattered
here and there were a few of both sides looking for their wounded, and
often themselves going down before the aim of sharpshooters. Stiffening
bodies lay under the trampled grass in every varied horror of
mutilation, and glassy eyes peered unseeing upward through the stalks,
like the absurd and ghastly contrast of a horrible dream. But among them
were the stricken living in as varied an agony, of raw wounds stung by
gnats, of pain cutting deep to vitality, of thirst, of the broiling sun,
of a buzzing fly, or of an intolerable loneliness there with death.
Groans rose over the plain, and guided the searchers. Driscoll had
already found many of his men in this way. Once he heard his own name.
The voice was weak, but there was something vaguely familiar to it, and
involuntarily he held his pistol against treachery as he parted the
grass and revealed a wounded man at his feet. It was a piteously
famished body that raised itself a little by one hand. It was a
soul-tenanted death-head that crooked gruesomely down on the shoulder
and lifted its eyes to Driscoll's in greeting. They were glowing coals,
those eyes, glowing with the virile fire of twenty men, however wasted
the face or tightly drawn the yellow parchment skin.

"Murgie!"

Driscoll's exclamation was a shudder rather