s are still perched. Though 'tis not their usual
roosting-place, they have remained there all night, now and then giving
utterance to their hoarse, guttural croaks, when some howling, predatory
quadruped--coyote or puma--approaching too near, has startled them from
their dozing slumbers. As the first rays of the sun rouse them to
activity, their movements tell why they have stayed. No longer at rest,
or only at intervals, they flit from rock to rock, and across the valley
from cliff to cliff, at times swooping so low that their wings almost
touch the topmost twigs of the trees growing upon the banks of the
stream. All the while with necks astretch, and eyes glaring in hungry
concupiscence. For below they perceive the materials of a repast--a
grand, gluttonous feast--no longer in doubtful expectation, but now
surely provided for them.

Ten men lie prostrate upon the sward; not asleep, as the vultures well
know--nor yet reclining to rest themselves. Their attitudes are
evidence against this. They lie with bodies bent and limbs stiff, some
of them contorted to unnatural postures. Besides, on the grass-blades
around are drops and gouts of blood, grown black during the night,
looking as if it had rained ink; while little pools of the same are here
and there seen, dull crimson and coagulated.

From these sanguinary symbols the vultures are well aware that the
recumbent forms are neither asleep nor reposing. Every bird knows that
every man of them is dead; and, though still clad in the uniform of
soldiers, with all the gay insignia of lancers, they are but clay-cold
corpses.

It is the firing party, still lying as it fell; not a figure disturbed,
not a coat stripped off nor pocket rifled; no strap, plume, or pennon
displaced since the moment when all dropped dead almost simultaneously
at the detonation of the Rangers' rifles.

Except the tents, which are still set as before, this cluster of corpses
is the only thing seeming unchanged since yesterday's sun went down.
For it was after sunset when the pursuers returned, bringing their
prisoners along with them. As on yesterday, two captives are seen under
the same tree, where late lay Don Valerian and the doctor. But
different men, with quite another style of sentry standing over them.
The latter, a rough-garbed, big-bearded Texan, full six feet in height,
shouldering a gun whose butt, when rested on the ground, places the
muzzle within an inch of his chin. No nee