kian by his side, they are
soon under the trees and out of sight. Not of the Rangers, who,
themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at
top speed.

Once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate
leave-taking, the Texans have carried the prisoners along with them. No
living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. The only sign of human
occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and
from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the
downpour.

Still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and
the rain pours down as from dishes. But not to deter the Texans, who,
drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley
road. There is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals,
occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to Colonel
Miranda; later still by Uraga's lancers.

Soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of
the Rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their
progress. Whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. The
animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire,
others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing
damage to themselves and their riders. For with the norther still
clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night.

Other dangers assail them from falling trees. Some go down bodily
before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the
wind, and strike crashing across the path. One comes near crushing half
a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs.

Notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can,
Hamersley and Wilder at their head, Haynes, Cully, and the best mounted
of the troop close following. Walt and the Kentuckian well know the
way. Otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might
fail to find it.

They succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the
stream comes in between the cliffs. A tiny runlet as they last looked
upon it--a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed.
Now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface,
where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. Against
these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. It has
filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway