s throat, and there were
sufficient symptoms of intelligence in him left to assure us that if he
himself were not attached to the party we sought, he knew the bivouac.
With a _riata_ around his neck, and carefully guarded, we again
advanced. Four miles beyond, we reached the encampment; it was situated
in a flat little meadow, a few feet lower than the road, and girdled
nearly around by the gully of a water-course that hemmed it in on all
sides. Our march had been so silent as not to create alarm, and strange
to say there was not a sentinel awake. Embers of the watch-fires gave
sufficient light to distinguish the sleeping figures of the troops, with
horses picketted near. We divided our forces into two parties, one
commanding the pathway to the meadow, whilst the other poured in a
deadly fire, and immediately charged across the ravine. Taken completely
by surprise, they jumped up in great consternation, and in their flight
received the bullets from our remaining muskets; before we could reload
they were flying, like so many ghosts, across the field, leaving
everything behind. On gaining the bivouac, we found it quite a
picturesque little glade, shaded by lofty forest-trees, and beneath,
were a number of bough-built huts, verging on the rivulet that crossed
the road. We counted eight dead bodies: one poor youth was breathing his
last. By the fitful light of a torch I tore open a bale of linen at
hand, passed some thick folds over the welling blood of his wounds,
placed a drop of brandy to his lips, and left him to die. They were
sixty in number, and we captured all they had--carbines, lances,
ammunition, horses, saddles, and clothing, besides their private
correspondence.

There was one incident connected with this _escaramuza_, which was a
source of deep regret to us. The wife and daughter of the commanding
officer had, very imprudently, been on a visit to the encampment. When
the attack commenced, they were sleeping in a hut, and immediately fled;
but the child, a little girl of ten years, had been grazed by a ball in
the foot, and told her mother the pebbles hurt her feet; the kind but
unfortunate woman ran back, in the thickest of the fire, for the child's
shoes, and, upon returning, received a mortal wound in the throat. She
was found by her friends, and died the following day--

"O! femme c'est a tort qu'on vous nomme timide,
A la voix de vos coeurs vous etes intrepide."

Loading our men with such