ck sat upon Twidget, reloading his
rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that
hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too
much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy.

"Thank you, Jack," said I, as I passed him; "I see you can use a rifle
to some purpose."

Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very
busy about the lock of his piece.

In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which
he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the
giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his
short bayonet through his antagonist's arm, and sent him off with this
member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he
retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his
fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:

"Yer darned skunk! I'll know yer agin. See if I don't git yer yit!"

Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and
several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one
killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the
long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet
distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and
picturesque attire.

The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo
that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the
prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at
every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where
it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the
lazo.

As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros
galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their
steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we
perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed
across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was
Hercules.

"Good heavens! the Major!"

"Safe somewhere," replied Clayley; "but where the deuce can he be? He
is not _hors de combat_ on the plain, or one could see him even ten
miles off. Ha! ha! ha!--look yonder!"

Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.

Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining
Clayley in his boisterous mi