e birds the marauders take no note. They are
used to seeing turkey-buzzards around--better known to them by the name
"zopilotes."

For long ere the Anglo-American colonists came in contact with the
Comanche Indians a Spano-Mexican vocabulary had penetrated to the
remotest of these tribes.

No new thing for the Tenawas to see the predatory birds swooping above
them all day and staying near them all night. Not stranger than a wolf
keeping close to the sheepfold, or a hungry dog skulking around
shambles.

As night draws near, and the purple twilight steals over the great Texan
plain, the party of chasing pursuers is relieved from a stay by all
deemed so irksome. Remounting their horses, they leave the scene of
their reluctant halt, and continue the pursuit silently, as if moving in
funeral march.

The only sounds heard are the dull thumping of their horses' hoofs upon
the soft prairie turf; now and then a clink, as one strikes against a
stone; the occasional tinkle of a canteen as it comes in contact with
saddle mounting or pistol butt; the champing of bits, with the breathing
of horses and men.

These last talk in low tones, in mutterings not much louder than
whispers. In pursuit of their savage foe, the well-trained Rangers
habitually proceed thus, and have cautioned the settlers to the same.
Though these need no compulsion to keep silent; their hearts are too
sore for speech; their anguish, in its terrible intensity, seeks for no
expression, till they stand face to face with the red ruffians who have
caused, and are still causing, it. The night darkens down, becoming so
obscure that each horseman can barely distinguish the form of him riding
ahead. Some regret this, thinking they may get strayed. Not so Cully.
On the contrary, the guide is glad, for he feels confident in his
conjecture that the pursued will be found in Pecan Creek, and a dark
night will favour the scheme of attack he has conceived and spoken of.
Counselled by him, the Ranger captain shares his confidence, and they
proceed direct towards the point where the tributary stream unites with
the main river--the little Witchita, along whose banks they have been
all that day tracking. Not but that Cully could take up the Indian
trail. Despite the obscurity he could do that, though not, as he
jestingly declared, by the smell. There are other indices that would
enable him, known but to men who have spent a lifetime upon the
prairies. He does not